love and addiction
Title: Love and Addiction (1/1)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through S4, I guess? Definitely through 4.18, but nothing specific after that.
Pairing: Martin/Samantha
Disclaimer: It's so small it's like they're not even here.
Summary: "My sponsor tells me I should pick and choose my vices."
Notes: This is the first fic that I've written in a long time, and it's the first non-drabble I've written for any ship outside of the ER fandom - ever. But given my affinity for the ER fandom, I'm rather familiar with AA/NA and the 12 step program. My muse has been bugging me to put this idea on paper, so I've written a series of scenes that will sort of carry over the course of Martin's recovery. A few of them are related, but most of them are separate.
Also, my beautiful beta white_ocean doesn't actually watch the show. So while she's a great help as far as spelling/grammar is concerned, I was left to my own devices as far as characterization. I hope I did alright for my first shot at Without a Trace fic.
Without further ado, the road to recovery and reconciliation - with a few cameo baseball appearances and an X-Files reference for good measure.
===
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
===
i. we admitted we were powerless over our addiction -- that our lives had become unmanageable.
Vices
"You know, that's really not your best side," Sam says as she finds him - once again - frowning into an empty pot of coffee.
"You don't say?"
"Clearly you have never been a high school girl," she laughs and picks up the pot, tilting it in multiple directions.
Martin shakes his head, cracking a small smile at his warped reflections. "Can't say that I have. But I can't say I'm sorry, either."
"Yes, but if you had been then you would know that coffee pots make terrible mirrors -- and you look like you've just lost your best friend."
"Hank's the best friend I've got right now," he motions to the empty pot she holds in her hand.
"Ah well, no one's perfect." She hesitates, and he wonders where 'Hank' came from. He wasn't sure he even knew a Hank. He wonders, then, if maybe she does.
But she is no longer hesitant, and he realizes it was something else entirely. "Should you, uh... Should you be drinking so much of that stuff?"
"My sponsor tells me I should pick and choose my vices. Apparently, coffee is viewed as much less destructive on the Richter scale at NA -" He laughs, and it's not nearly as self-deprecating as he thought.
He squeezes her shoulder, as though to reassure her. Her, yes. Or maybe himself.
"Well," she quips "then I would have to say that your sponsor is a very wise man."
He watches her form as she finds the paper she'd been looking for and retreats to the bullpen. And in that moment, he makes a choice.
ii. came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
One-Hit Wonders
She changes the radio station four times before settling on some variation of 'Flashback Friday,' and he's fairly sure he would have glared at her if he weren't concentrating on weaving through city traffic.
"You do know that the driver usually gets veto power over radio stations, right?"
"What? Are you gonna hold it against me that I'd rather hear Ace of Base than U2 this morning?"
She's using that tone again - half daring him to challenge her, half trying to keep a straight face. And it's a few seconds before they get stopped by a yellow light that he probably could have made it through.
"I'd hold that against you every morning." He takes one hand off of the steering wheel and pretends to scratch his chin. Pretends he doesn't see her cautiously glancing at his profile through her dark glasses. It's a little too G-woman for him, and maybe she knows something's up.
She turns her head back, though, and he sees his chance. He's quick, and before she knows what's happening, his fingers have connected with the tuning button.
"Agent Fitzgerald," It's the tone. Again. "I hope you're aware that this means war."
Before he can reply, he hears an unfortunately impatient blast echoing from the vehicle stopped behind them at the light which was no longer red - not that he'd noticed.
They are about five buildings into the next block before she hits 'memory' and thinks she's won.
But then he hears her, softly crooning to the tune of some early 90's one-hit wonder. She's not half-bad, either.
He realizes that in the four and a half years he's known her, he never knew she could sing.
iii. made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of god as we understood him.
Full-Court Press
"FOUL!" Danny yells, clutching his arm to his chest as he falls dramatically to the ground.
Martin laughs to himself as he watched Danny rub his arm, feigning injury. "You're a terrible act, Taylor. She does not hit that hard."
One of Danny's basketball buddies chimes in, apparently trying to be helpful. "Oh, and you would know?"
"So what if he does?" She looks rather pleased with herself, smirking ever so slightly back at the nondescript, sweaty Latino man.
Martin finds himself grinning embarrassedly as he takes in the scene around him. "Okay, okay! Enough of that - why don't we all take a break for a few minutes? Give Danny a chance to lick his wounds -"
The group nods in agreement, everyone retreating to their respective water bottles. As she sips slowly, he can almost visualize the wheels in her head turning.
"You think his ego will recover?" She finally quips pensively.
"Oh, eventually. May take a few days, though. I'm guessing he didn't invite us just to make a fool of himself."
"Of course not! But that doesn't mean I don't plan on kicking his ass anyway."
He wouldn't have expected any less. Not from her.
"He, uh, mentioned that he saw you at mass last week -" It's not exactly a question, but it's not a statement either. Though either way, her eyes implore response.
"Yeah, he did. At the time, I thought it would be a good idea - with everything that's going on -" His voice breaks, forcing him to stop.
"And was it?"
"It was."
It's all he has at that moment, and so she reaches out to squeeze his hand.
It's enough.
iv. made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Iron Depletion
There were days, and then there were days like these.
Days when the sky shades darker at noon than at midnight.
Somehow, it was always easier when he could tell himself they'd had it coming. And maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but he doesn't really care right now.
So lost in thought, he doesn't hear the click of her heels as she approaches him. "Hey -"
"Oh, hey." He rubs his temple, lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"You okay?"
"I guess -"
"You want to tell me the truth?" She looks almost - tentative.
"Not really." He snaps, then immediately regrets it as she turns to walk away.
"Fine, Martin. I'm here if you need me."
Her words seem genuine, but they cut bitter and deep - old wounds that never really healed. He realizes, maybe for the first time, that some of those wounds were self-inflicted.
"Samantha -" He calls after her retreating figure, an almost unnecessary formality as she's traveled all of six feet from him. Seemingly interested in information coming in on the fax machine. "I didn't mean - I mean, I'm okay. Really."
Eye contact, at that moment, becomes imperative.
"I know - You just, left us for a few minutes there. I was wondering if I'd have to search for an alien implant." Her eyes shine in the dark as she teases him.
"You think you'd know where to look, Scully? Those little green men can be pretty shifty."
She breathes her retort. "A reticulan's skin tone is actually grey, Agent Mulder. You of all people should know that."
His arms cross, exhaling sharply. She was right, of course; he should have known.
He smiles when he realizes that she knew, too.
v. admitted to god, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Killing Time
He quickly learns that his sponsor hates Starbucks, which is how he finds himself waiting on a park bench at 10:00 on a Saturday morning.
Well, 10:04.
"You're late," he says as his sponsor appears in his peripheral vision.
"My watch says 9:59. You're just early, Martin."
"Hey, don't argue with official FBI time," he grins victoriously and holds out his wrist.
"What you really mean is don't argue with the man who carries a weapon."
"Something like that." He shrugs his shoulders and leans against the wooden back of the bench.
"So, it's been awhile since I've heard from you." The slightly older man grins back, taking a seat and turning to face him.
"I guess it has. We've been pretty busy these past couple of weeks. Now that it's warmer outside, the kidnappers aren't hibernating anymore -"
"Okay, now I know you're full of shit."
He raises his hands in mock defeat. "If only I were. Believe me."
"So, what? You hardly ever talk about work. I guess it's not as exciting as The X-Files?"
"Well, you see, when we get a case and someone's missing, we tend to find them on this planet."
Almost on cue, his phone interrupts the morning quiet. "Fitzgerald," he answers.
"You should be glad you're not on call this weekend," she says with a calculated cheeriness in her voice.
"What, no 'Hi, how are you?'" He laughs, wondering what this is about.
"I owe you no favors. You got to sleep in this morning."
"It's - 10:15. How do you know that?" He fakes another glance at his watch while his sponsor mouths "Scully?" It's easier if he pretends not to hear, although he knows the Spanish Inquisition will come later.
"Questioning me will get you nowhere," her voice insists. "I thought you knew that by now."
"Well of course. But shouldn't you be, you know -- working?"
"I need a thirty second break from Danny's snoring. It's pretty much imperative."
"Well, by my calculations Agent Spade, I thought you said thirty. By now you've had forty-five."
She laughs, pauses.
"Yeah, but it's you."
vi. were entirely ready to have god remove all these defects of character.
Blown Save
"I can't believe it!" Danny throws up his arms in disgust.
"Oh, come on! You didn't see that coming?" Martin tries to hold back a laugh at his friend's forlorn facial expression. One might think there was more than the All Star Game on the line from the way Danny looks like a wounded puppy.
"It's not over yet, though. We've still got our half of the inning." Danny protests once again; he should know better.
"Face it, Danny. It's a done deal," Sam says, stopping to hand out the next round of beers as she returned from the kitchen.
"Yeah, should we toast now? Or wait until 'Enter Sandman' starts playing?" Martin smiles at her and raises his drink.
Danny, in turn, throttles his water bottle; he is not impressed by this turn of events.
"I think now is good," her reply hangs in the air for effect while Danny continues to sulk. "Viv is right -- you Mets fans really are bitter."
"Ugh. You two can take your high maintenance, low-fielding home run boys and shove it. This is depressing!" Danny pauses, looking more bemused than indignant now. "Enjoy your come from behind victory, guys."
With that, the door closes and they are alone. She, seemingly intent on watching the bottom half of the ninth, and he, suddenly very interested in the bowl of chips sitting on his coffee table.
He is still engrossed in the plastic bowl when she speaks over the television, which he finally realizes is now the post-game show.
"As All Star Games go, that wasn't very exciting." She waits, ensuring that she is in fact more interesting than the last Tostito crumbs. "At least, not for the first eight innings."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh." She tries, but can't hide her smirk. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"You were the pitcher on your Little League team." It's a statement, though he nods an answer anyway. Seven scoreless innings, a near joint no-hitter, and there's no other explanation. "Then why do you always play left field at the spring picnic?"
He stops himself without slipping: she plays third base.
"I like to play the field -" He prides himself in how easily he makes it sounds like a joke. "You know, try new things."
If she knows he's lying, then she doesn't let on. Subconsciously, he appreciates that fact.
"You're terrible. Absolutely terrible."
The plastic bowl finds its way to his chest, crumbs scattering in every direction as she retrieves the remote. The television goes blank and - right before she flings the remote at him - he surveys the mess they've managed to make that evening.
It's a good thing he convinced Tina to come back.
vii. humbly asked him to remove our shortcomings.
Act of Contrition
The storm brewing is visible from the twelfth floor window, and he is vaguely reminded of his First Confession. At the time, he felt nothing was more terrifying than admitting to Father Mike that he had been the one who had spilled juice on his father's new - newest - jacket.
For nearly two weeks, he remembers waiting for someone to get angry. For his father to yell or his mother to scold.
He remembers that the jacket was immediately discarded into his older sister's dress up bin.
He forgets, then, after that - nothing else ever came of it. And he knew -- he knew Father Mike had kept his secret.
But then, most seven year olds don't fully understand the concept of priest-penitent privilege.
Most full-grown adults don't, either.
He shook his head, begging his subconscious to sound a little less like her - just this once.
His cell phone ring breaks into the silence, interrupting him from absolutely nothing. Unless he counts staring at the files he finished over twenty minutes ago. Uttering his usual, no-nonsense FBI greeting, he smiles as he hears the other woman in his life answer.
"Marty -"
"Hey, Jamie. It's, uh. It's been too long."
"I know. We missed you at Ava's birthday party."
An apology won't suffice, so he lets the air hang silent between them. Not entirely uncomfortable, but not pleasant either. He's missed them, too.
An echo of the seven year old boy who spilled juice on his father's new jacket.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
viii. made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
The Unbirthday
He was putting the finishing touches on dinner when he heard the knock at the door.
"Hey," he said, opening the door and smiling broadly. "You're ear --" But it wasn't his cousin who stood at his door. "You're not Jamie."
"Wow, has anyone ever told you that you should be in law enforcement?" Sam grins and ducks under his outstretched arm, letting herself in.
"Someone might have, once. She was cute, too. I think you'd like her."
"Oh, I would?"
"I do," he says, without thinking.
It suddenly seems a little bit warmer, and he's certain it's not the chicken that's still in the oven. The chicken in the oven that's beeping.
"I should, uh. I should get that."
"Yes," she nods. "You should." She follows him to the kitchen, watching him thoughtfully while he busies himself placing everything on the table. "Your cousins are coming over tonight?"
"I missed Ava's birthday back in May with, uh, everything that was going on. This is step one of making it up to them."
"It looks good, Martin." She squeezes his hand reassuringly.
"You could stay -- if you wanted to. I'm sure they'd love to see you."
"I wouldn't want to impose. I actually just came by to pick up your notes from the Kendall Morgan case. Viv said you have the interview tape? She got caught up at one of Reggie's basketball games."
"Of course. I've got them right here." He retrieves the files and tape from his desk, "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"
"Give them my best, and make sure you take pictures when Ava flings cake everywhere."
He assures her that he will, and she pauses briefly at his door before letting herself out.
"It looks good, Martin."
And with that, she was gone.
ix. made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
One Last Thing
"Goodnight, Viv!" She's collecting her coat as she calls out to the older agent.
"Goodnight, Samantha. Have fun tonight!"
She shakes her head, groaning audibly, and he feels something rise up inside of him, something he recognizes but can't name. It aches a little.
He hasn't felt this in awhile. It's rather distracting, and before he can decide whether or not to approach her, she takes the decision out of his hands.
"You heading out soon?"
"I was just going to finish up a few things around here," he motions to the stack of files on his desk. "I'm a little bit behind. You?"
"Uh, yeah. I kind of have a, uh, a thing tonight."
She's stuttering. Samantha Spade never stutters.
"A thing, huh?"
"Yeah. I, uh, Elena set me up with this guy she knows. I said 'no,' but she insisted --"
She's clearly not comfortable sharing this, and he's not very comfortable hearing it. He's heard rumors about Sofie's father.
She turns to leave, and he wants to stop her, tell her to be safe. Tell her she can call him if she needs anything.
"Samantha -" Her full name suddenly sounds foreign and bitter on his tongue. And he can't.
"Yes?"
"Goodnight."
I'm sorry.
x. continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
An Elephant Never Forgets
"I've got a secret -" she announces casually, finding him alone on the balcony at the end of the day.
"Oh, really? Anything you'd like to share with the class, Agent Spade?"
"I might need some convincing."
"I'd oblige, of course, but that might not be very professional of me -"
"Are you suggesting something, Agent Fitzgerald?" She raises her eyebrows.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He feels her gaze turn toward him as her laughter dies out. He expects another retort, and then --
"I can't believe it's been a year, either."
The silence that follows is inconsequential. Just that she said it. She said it and he heard it and she can't take it back. She doesn't want to, either.
She had never been one who was good with dates -- he, of all people, would know that. But today, she had remembered. One year ago today, he nearly died. She had remembered, and no one else had.
Nothing else matters.
"It's getting late," he says finally. Before he realizes what's happened, she's smiling and he's smiling with her. Her face lights up, and he realizes that they don't do this enough. Whatever 'this' is.
He's miles away from the federal building when she speaks again.
"You want to get a drink?"
He nods, and his heart beats a little bit faster. He's forgotten what that feels like.
But after all, there's nothing worse than a beautiful woman drinking alone.
xi. sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with god as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out.
Double Steal
From his vantage point at third base, he can see the infield creep in.
He takes his lead down the baseline; Jack takes strike one.
Jack has a good enough eye but, with his knee, a ground ball to the infield would be a double play ball for sure. A tenth inning, even as she is the runner at first.
The opposing pitcher figures as much, of course, and took the gamble by walking her intentionally.
One and one. Jack steps out.
She catches his eye and darts along the baseline. He knows what she wants to do.
It's risky, though. He's absolutely sure of that. But Jack steps back in and takes strike two, and he nods in affirmation.
Two and two.
She takes her lead, and he his. Vivian whistles from the bleachers; knows there's something - something -
Now.
She breaks down the line, and Jack swings through.
That was high and tight, he thinks, as he makes his move.
Strike three. Two outs.
The catcher, eyeing a preserved tie and a tenth inning, fires to second. But too late.
She's too fast.
And he's already slid across home plate.
Safe.
xii. we will suddenly realize that god is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.
Defying Gravity
She's been seeing Lisa again, he is almost sure of that.
So his natural reaction when he spots her on the balcony one afternoon, looking somewhat pensive, is to worry about her.
Okay, so that would have been his natural reaction anyway. But he wouldn't admit that if asked.
He moves cautiously towards the glass partition, proud as he only hesitates twice before sliding the door open and stepping out into the cool fall air.
She must have heard the door open. But her gaze never falters and his eyes can't leave her form. His greeting dies before it even reaches his tongue, but this silence, this time, it feels right.
When he hears her voice breaking over the sounds of the city bustling below, he almost turns to see if there's someone else there.
"Sometimes, I think I might like to try skydiving. You know? Just let go and do something completely crazy." She stops, deep in thought for half a second. An eternity. And when she begins again, he's not sure she's talking about skydiving anymore. "But it seems like such a long way to fall."
He steps beside her now, bracing his arms against the railing and watching the world pass by on the sidewalk below. He catches her eyes, a smile in affirmation.
A long way to fall, indeed.
===
fin
===
Several end notes:
(1) I realize I completely ignored the conversation Danny and Martin have about his sponsor in Expectations. I had to do it to make the scene work out. Please don't hate me :-p
(2) I've realized that I don't do fluff often. I think I tend to feel more comfortable writing when I can be in touch with my inner emo kid.
(3) Constructive criticism would be fantastic. I've never written anything full-length outside of the ER genre, and I'm still working on getting in character in the WaT world. Given that my beta doesn't watch the show, any suggestions would make my life.
(4) Title brutally theived from the Counting Crows song by the same name. Just for the records.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through S4, I guess? Definitely through 4.18, but nothing specific after that.
Pairing: Martin/Samantha
Disclaimer: It's so small it's like they're not even here.
Summary: "My sponsor tells me I should pick and choose my vices."
Notes: This is the first fic that I've written in a long time, and it's the first non-drabble I've written for any ship outside of the ER fandom - ever. But given my affinity for the ER fandom, I'm rather familiar with AA/NA and the 12 step program. My muse has been bugging me to put this idea on paper, so I've written a series of scenes that will sort of carry over the course of Martin's recovery. A few of them are related, but most of them are separate.
Also, my beautiful beta white_ocean doesn't actually watch the show. So while she's a great help as far as spelling/grammar is concerned, I was left to my own devices as far as characterization. I hope I did alright for my first shot at Without a Trace fic.
Without further ado, the road to recovery and reconciliation - with a few cameo baseball appearances and an X-Files reference for good measure.
===
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
===
i. we admitted we were powerless over our addiction -- that our lives had become unmanageable.
Vices
"You know, that's really not your best side," Sam says as she finds him - once again - frowning into an empty pot of coffee.
"You don't say?"
"Clearly you have never been a high school girl," she laughs and picks up the pot, tilting it in multiple directions.
Martin shakes his head, cracking a small smile at his warped reflections. "Can't say that I have. But I can't say I'm sorry, either."
"Yes, but if you had been then you would know that coffee pots make terrible mirrors -- and you look like you've just lost your best friend."
"Hank's the best friend I've got right now," he motions to the empty pot she holds in her hand.
"Ah well, no one's perfect." She hesitates, and he wonders where 'Hank' came from. He wasn't sure he even knew a Hank. He wonders, then, if maybe she does.
But she is no longer hesitant, and he realizes it was something else entirely. "Should you, uh... Should you be drinking so much of that stuff?"
"My sponsor tells me I should pick and choose my vices. Apparently, coffee is viewed as much less destructive on the Richter scale at NA -" He laughs, and it's not nearly as self-deprecating as he thought.
He squeezes her shoulder, as though to reassure her. Her, yes. Or maybe himself.
"Well," she quips "then I would have to say that your sponsor is a very wise man."
He watches her form as she finds the paper she'd been looking for and retreats to the bullpen. And in that moment, he makes a choice.
ii. came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
One-Hit Wonders
She changes the radio station four times before settling on some variation of 'Flashback Friday,' and he's fairly sure he would have glared at her if he weren't concentrating on weaving through city traffic.
"You do know that the driver usually gets veto power over radio stations, right?"
"What? Are you gonna hold it against me that I'd rather hear Ace of Base than U2 this morning?"
She's using that tone again - half daring him to challenge her, half trying to keep a straight face. And it's a few seconds before they get stopped by a yellow light that he probably could have made it through.
"I'd hold that against you every morning." He takes one hand off of the steering wheel and pretends to scratch his chin. Pretends he doesn't see her cautiously glancing at his profile through her dark glasses. It's a little too G-woman for him, and maybe she knows something's up.
She turns her head back, though, and he sees his chance. He's quick, and before she knows what's happening, his fingers have connected with the tuning button.
"Agent Fitzgerald," It's the tone. Again. "I hope you're aware that this means war."
Before he can reply, he hears an unfortunately impatient blast echoing from the vehicle stopped behind them at the light which was no longer red - not that he'd noticed.
They are about five buildings into the next block before she hits 'memory' and thinks she's won.
But then he hears her, softly crooning to the tune of some early 90's one-hit wonder. She's not half-bad, either.
He realizes that in the four and a half years he's known her, he never knew she could sing.
iii. made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of god as we understood him.
Full-Court Press
"FOUL!" Danny yells, clutching his arm to his chest as he falls dramatically to the ground.
Martin laughs to himself as he watched Danny rub his arm, feigning injury. "You're a terrible act, Taylor. She does not hit that hard."
One of Danny's basketball buddies chimes in, apparently trying to be helpful. "Oh, and you would know?"
"So what if he does?" She looks rather pleased with herself, smirking ever so slightly back at the nondescript, sweaty Latino man.
Martin finds himself grinning embarrassedly as he takes in the scene around him. "Okay, okay! Enough of that - why don't we all take a break for a few minutes? Give Danny a chance to lick his wounds -"
The group nods in agreement, everyone retreating to their respective water bottles. As she sips slowly, he can almost visualize the wheels in her head turning.
"You think his ego will recover?" She finally quips pensively.
"Oh, eventually. May take a few days, though. I'm guessing he didn't invite us just to make a fool of himself."
"Of course not! But that doesn't mean I don't plan on kicking his ass anyway."
He wouldn't have expected any less. Not from her.
"He, uh, mentioned that he saw you at mass last week -" It's not exactly a question, but it's not a statement either. Though either way, her eyes implore response.
"Yeah, he did. At the time, I thought it would be a good idea - with everything that's going on -" His voice breaks, forcing him to stop.
"And was it?"
"It was."
It's all he has at that moment, and so she reaches out to squeeze his hand.
It's enough.
iv. made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Iron Depletion
There were days, and then there were days like these.
Days when the sky shades darker at noon than at midnight.
Somehow, it was always easier when he could tell himself they'd had it coming. And maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but he doesn't really care right now.
So lost in thought, he doesn't hear the click of her heels as she approaches him. "Hey -"
"Oh, hey." He rubs his temple, lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"You okay?"
"I guess -"
"You want to tell me the truth?" She looks almost - tentative.
"Not really." He snaps, then immediately regrets it as she turns to walk away.
"Fine, Martin. I'm here if you need me."
Her words seem genuine, but they cut bitter and deep - old wounds that never really healed. He realizes, maybe for the first time, that some of those wounds were self-inflicted.
"Samantha -" He calls after her retreating figure, an almost unnecessary formality as she's traveled all of six feet from him. Seemingly interested in information coming in on the fax machine. "I didn't mean - I mean, I'm okay. Really."
Eye contact, at that moment, becomes imperative.
"I know - You just, left us for a few minutes there. I was wondering if I'd have to search for an alien implant." Her eyes shine in the dark as she teases him.
"You think you'd know where to look, Scully? Those little green men can be pretty shifty."
She breathes her retort. "A reticulan's skin tone is actually grey, Agent Mulder. You of all people should know that."
His arms cross, exhaling sharply. She was right, of course; he should have known.
He smiles when he realizes that she knew, too.
v. admitted to god, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Killing Time
He quickly learns that his sponsor hates Starbucks, which is how he finds himself waiting on a park bench at 10:00 on a Saturday morning.
Well, 10:04.
"You're late," he says as his sponsor appears in his peripheral vision.
"My watch says 9:59. You're just early, Martin."
"Hey, don't argue with official FBI time," he grins victoriously and holds out his wrist.
"What you really mean is don't argue with the man who carries a weapon."
"Something like that." He shrugs his shoulders and leans against the wooden back of the bench.
"So, it's been awhile since I've heard from you." The slightly older man grins back, taking a seat and turning to face him.
"I guess it has. We've been pretty busy these past couple of weeks. Now that it's warmer outside, the kidnappers aren't hibernating anymore -"
"Okay, now I know you're full of shit."
He raises his hands in mock defeat. "If only I were. Believe me."
"So, what? You hardly ever talk about work. I guess it's not as exciting as The X-Files?"
"Well, you see, when we get a case and someone's missing, we tend to find them on this planet."
Almost on cue, his phone interrupts the morning quiet. "Fitzgerald," he answers.
"You should be glad you're not on call this weekend," she says with a calculated cheeriness in her voice.
"What, no 'Hi, how are you?'" He laughs, wondering what this is about.
"I owe you no favors. You got to sleep in this morning."
"It's - 10:15. How do you know that?" He fakes another glance at his watch while his sponsor mouths "Scully?" It's easier if he pretends not to hear, although he knows the Spanish Inquisition will come later.
"Questioning me will get you nowhere," her voice insists. "I thought you knew that by now."
"Well of course. But shouldn't you be, you know -- working?"
"I need a thirty second break from Danny's snoring. It's pretty much imperative."
"Well, by my calculations Agent Spade, I thought you said thirty. By now you've had forty-five."
She laughs, pauses.
"Yeah, but it's you."
vi. were entirely ready to have god remove all these defects of character.
Blown Save
"I can't believe it!" Danny throws up his arms in disgust.
"Oh, come on! You didn't see that coming?" Martin tries to hold back a laugh at his friend's forlorn facial expression. One might think there was more than the All Star Game on the line from the way Danny looks like a wounded puppy.
"It's not over yet, though. We've still got our half of the inning." Danny protests once again; he should know better.
"Face it, Danny. It's a done deal," Sam says, stopping to hand out the next round of beers as she returned from the kitchen.
"Yeah, should we toast now? Or wait until 'Enter Sandman' starts playing?" Martin smiles at her and raises his drink.
Danny, in turn, throttles his water bottle; he is not impressed by this turn of events.
"I think now is good," her reply hangs in the air for effect while Danny continues to sulk. "Viv is right -- you Mets fans really are bitter."
"Ugh. You two can take your high maintenance, low-fielding home run boys and shove it. This is depressing!" Danny pauses, looking more bemused than indignant now. "Enjoy your come from behind victory, guys."
With that, the door closes and they are alone. She, seemingly intent on watching the bottom half of the ninth, and he, suddenly very interested in the bowl of chips sitting on his coffee table.
He is still engrossed in the plastic bowl when she speaks over the television, which he finally realizes is now the post-game show.
"As All Star Games go, that wasn't very exciting." She waits, ensuring that she is in fact more interesting than the last Tostito crumbs. "At least, not for the first eight innings."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh." She tries, but can't hide her smirk. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"You were the pitcher on your Little League team." It's a statement, though he nods an answer anyway. Seven scoreless innings, a near joint no-hitter, and there's no other explanation. "Then why do you always play left field at the spring picnic?"
He stops himself without slipping: she plays third base.
"I like to play the field -" He prides himself in how easily he makes it sounds like a joke. "You know, try new things."
If she knows he's lying, then she doesn't let on. Subconsciously, he appreciates that fact.
"You're terrible. Absolutely terrible."
The plastic bowl finds its way to his chest, crumbs scattering in every direction as she retrieves the remote. The television goes blank and - right before she flings the remote at him - he surveys the mess they've managed to make that evening.
It's a good thing he convinced Tina to come back.
vii. humbly asked him to remove our shortcomings.
Act of Contrition
The storm brewing is visible from the twelfth floor window, and he is vaguely reminded of his First Confession. At the time, he felt nothing was more terrifying than admitting to Father Mike that he had been the one who had spilled juice on his father's new - newest - jacket.
For nearly two weeks, he remembers waiting for someone to get angry. For his father to yell or his mother to scold.
He remembers that the jacket was immediately discarded into his older sister's dress up bin.
He forgets, then, after that - nothing else ever came of it. And he knew -- he knew Father Mike had kept his secret.
But then, most seven year olds don't fully understand the concept of priest-penitent privilege.
Most full-grown adults don't, either.
He shook his head, begging his subconscious to sound a little less like her - just this once.
His cell phone ring breaks into the silence, interrupting him from absolutely nothing. Unless he counts staring at the files he finished over twenty minutes ago. Uttering his usual, no-nonsense FBI greeting, he smiles as he hears the other woman in his life answer.
"Marty -"
"Hey, Jamie. It's, uh. It's been too long."
"I know. We missed you at Ava's birthday party."
An apology won't suffice, so he lets the air hang silent between them. Not entirely uncomfortable, but not pleasant either. He's missed them, too.
An echo of the seven year old boy who spilled juice on his father's new jacket.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
viii. made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
The Unbirthday
He was putting the finishing touches on dinner when he heard the knock at the door.
"Hey," he said, opening the door and smiling broadly. "You're ear --" But it wasn't his cousin who stood at his door. "You're not Jamie."
"Wow, has anyone ever told you that you should be in law enforcement?" Sam grins and ducks under his outstretched arm, letting herself in.
"Someone might have, once. She was cute, too. I think you'd like her."
"Oh, I would?"
"I do," he says, without thinking.
It suddenly seems a little bit warmer, and he's certain it's not the chicken that's still in the oven. The chicken in the oven that's beeping.
"I should, uh. I should get that."
"Yes," she nods. "You should." She follows him to the kitchen, watching him thoughtfully while he busies himself placing everything on the table. "Your cousins are coming over tonight?"
"I missed Ava's birthday back in May with, uh, everything that was going on. This is step one of making it up to them."
"It looks good, Martin." She squeezes his hand reassuringly.
"You could stay -- if you wanted to. I'm sure they'd love to see you."
"I wouldn't want to impose. I actually just came by to pick up your notes from the Kendall Morgan case. Viv said you have the interview tape? She got caught up at one of Reggie's basketball games."
"Of course. I've got them right here." He retrieves the files and tape from his desk, "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"
"Give them my best, and make sure you take pictures when Ava flings cake everywhere."
He assures her that he will, and she pauses briefly at his door before letting herself out.
"It looks good, Martin."
And with that, she was gone.
ix. made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
One Last Thing
"Goodnight, Viv!" She's collecting her coat as she calls out to the older agent.
"Goodnight, Samantha. Have fun tonight!"
She shakes her head, groaning audibly, and he feels something rise up inside of him, something he recognizes but can't name. It aches a little.
He hasn't felt this in awhile. It's rather distracting, and before he can decide whether or not to approach her, she takes the decision out of his hands.
"You heading out soon?"
"I was just going to finish up a few things around here," he motions to the stack of files on his desk. "I'm a little bit behind. You?"
"Uh, yeah. I kind of have a, uh, a thing tonight."
She's stuttering. Samantha Spade never stutters.
"A thing, huh?"
"Yeah. I, uh, Elena set me up with this guy she knows. I said 'no,' but she insisted --"
She's clearly not comfortable sharing this, and he's not very comfortable hearing it. He's heard rumors about Sofie's father.
She turns to leave, and he wants to stop her, tell her to be safe. Tell her she can call him if she needs anything.
"Samantha -" Her full name suddenly sounds foreign and bitter on his tongue. And he can't.
"Yes?"
"Goodnight."
I'm sorry.
x. continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
An Elephant Never Forgets
"I've got a secret -" she announces casually, finding him alone on the balcony at the end of the day.
"Oh, really? Anything you'd like to share with the class, Agent Spade?"
"I might need some convincing."
"I'd oblige, of course, but that might not be very professional of me -"
"Are you suggesting something, Agent Fitzgerald?" She raises her eyebrows.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He feels her gaze turn toward him as her laughter dies out. He expects another retort, and then --
"I can't believe it's been a year, either."
The silence that follows is inconsequential. Just that she said it. She said it and he heard it and she can't take it back. She doesn't want to, either.
She had never been one who was good with dates -- he, of all people, would know that. But today, she had remembered. One year ago today, he nearly died. She had remembered, and no one else had.
Nothing else matters.
"It's getting late," he says finally. Before he realizes what's happened, she's smiling and he's smiling with her. Her face lights up, and he realizes that they don't do this enough. Whatever 'this' is.
He's miles away from the federal building when she speaks again.
"You want to get a drink?"
He nods, and his heart beats a little bit faster. He's forgotten what that feels like.
But after all, there's nothing worse than a beautiful woman drinking alone.
xi. sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with god as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out.
Double Steal
From his vantage point at third base, he can see the infield creep in.
He takes his lead down the baseline; Jack takes strike one.
Jack has a good enough eye but, with his knee, a ground ball to the infield would be a double play ball for sure. A tenth inning, even as she is the runner at first.
The opposing pitcher figures as much, of course, and took the gamble by walking her intentionally.
One and one. Jack steps out.
She catches his eye and darts along the baseline. He knows what she wants to do.
It's risky, though. He's absolutely sure of that. But Jack steps back in and takes strike two, and he nods in affirmation.
Two and two.
She takes her lead, and he his. Vivian whistles from the bleachers; knows there's something - something -
Now.
She breaks down the line, and Jack swings through.
That was high and tight, he thinks, as he makes his move.
Strike three. Two outs.
The catcher, eyeing a preserved tie and a tenth inning, fires to second. But too late.
She's too fast.
And he's already slid across home plate.
Safe.
xii. we will suddenly realize that god is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.
Defying Gravity
She's been seeing Lisa again, he is almost sure of that.
So his natural reaction when he spots her on the balcony one afternoon, looking somewhat pensive, is to worry about her.
Okay, so that would have been his natural reaction anyway. But he wouldn't admit that if asked.
He moves cautiously towards the glass partition, proud as he only hesitates twice before sliding the door open and stepping out into the cool fall air.
She must have heard the door open. But her gaze never falters and his eyes can't leave her form. His greeting dies before it even reaches his tongue, but this silence, this time, it feels right.
When he hears her voice breaking over the sounds of the city bustling below, he almost turns to see if there's someone else there.
"Sometimes, I think I might like to try skydiving. You know? Just let go and do something completely crazy." She stops, deep in thought for half a second. An eternity. And when she begins again, he's not sure she's talking about skydiving anymore. "But it seems like such a long way to fall."
He steps beside her now, bracing his arms against the railing and watching the world pass by on the sidewalk below. He catches her eyes, a smile in affirmation.
A long way to fall, indeed.
===
fin
===
Several end notes:
(1) I realize I completely ignored the conversation Danny and Martin have about his sponsor in Expectations. I had to do it to make the scene work out. Please don't hate me :-p
(2) I've realized that I don't do fluff often. I think I tend to feel more comfortable writing when I can be in touch with my inner emo kid.
(3) Constructive criticism would be fantastic. I've never written anything full-length outside of the ER genre, and I'm still working on getting in character in the WaT world. Given that my beta doesn't watch the show, any suggestions would make my life.
(4) Title brutally theived from the Counting Crows song by the same name. Just for the records.