#69 -- Thunder
Disclaimer: I own neither Without A Trace, nor the characters involved. They belong to Warner Brothers Television. I make no money from these works, they are for entertainment purposes only.
Title: "Anchorage"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #69 Thunder
Word Count: 8,150 (approx)
Rating: R (language)
Spoilers: Up to and including 6x03 "Res Ipsa"
Credits: Thank you squeelated and jennukes for the beta.
Author's Notes:: This took me forever to write, I don't know why. I started right after "Res Ipsa" originally aired (I couldn't rewatch, my DVD recorder had an electronic meltdown before I could finalise the disc), and by the time I finally finished, we were halfway through the season and into the writers' strike. So, if you can, harken back to that episode and ignore all that came after… not that it's that significant.
Anchorage
He can't sleep. He feels sick. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that girl jump, expecting him to hurt her. He's not that intimidating. He has trouble getting people to take him seriously, forget scaring them. He knows what it's like to almost die, to think you're going to die or even wish you could, but he doesn't think he can ever understand the level of fear she possessed. He grew up in terror, yet can't imagine one so deep that someone like him - scrawny, baby-faced Marty Fitzgerald - could be perceived as a threat.
That isn't the only thing that makes his blood sound like thunder in his ears, the way it does when he stops running after a good sprint and his heart and breath haven't quite caught up. How, he wonders, could Jack have even considered doing what he did? What the hell was going through the man's brain? When did 'at any cost' become acceptable?
I used to trust you. Hell, he used to think that Jack had the kind of attitude he wished he could possess. He'd even tried to model himself after the guy for a while, an experiment that has now come to a screaming halt. "Not on my watch.", Viv said, when Danny pointed out the futility of trying to stop Jack from anything. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do," had been Danny's statement, and in that moment Martin had realised just how bad things were. Danny had once had faith, too, yet now the man who - in this modern world - could still believe that wine could truly become blood and bread transform to flesh, even he had Thomas-like thoughts. At that moment, Martin knew that everything was changing and as usual, he was the last to figure it out.
He's not even sure if he has figured it out in time. What's going to happen to this team that was once closer than family but is now finding its loyalties divided? If this were a book, he could just skip to the end, but he's a character in this story and has no way to find out but to live through all the messy details. This is life: happy endings belong to other people.
He sits in his bed, fighting an urge older and stronger than the one he goes to those monotonous twice-weekly meetings about. It's late, he tells himself. He's past that, he argues silently. Ultimately, though, he knows he's going to lose.
He gets up and crosses to the wardrobe, not even bothering to sigh. He pulls on a pair of shorts and some socks, despite the fact that it's chilly out and perhaps sweats would be better. He's not thinking about those things, he's just focussed, even obsessed, on the goal of getting away. Even as he sits down at the door to tie his shoes, he's not thinking of where he might go, he just knows that he can't stay here. Here isn't safe anymore. There's no stability left; the rules haven't just changed, they've been obliterated. A life without rules isn't a life he can deal with. He'd rather be dead.
He hits the street, picking what he thinks is a random direction and starting to run. He's not sure when he plans to stop, either; maybe he'll quit when his body collapses and he just rolls into an alley, or ditch somewhere to die from exposure. Maybe he'll get hit by a car and just forget who he is so all of the doubt won't even matter. He's not about to kill himself, but he's not sure if he cares whether or not someone else does it for him. Until then, he'll run, straight on until dawn if he has to, past that if he can. He grabbed a bottle of water on the way out the door, nothing else, but none of that matters. This isn't a race, he doesn't care if he runs out of energy, rather that is the point. He needs something, and if he can't have opiates, then endorphins will have to do.
He doesn't quite make dawn before another instinct kicks in, a desperate craving not to run, but to hide. It's darker now, and he's shivering from overstress and underinsulation. Mindlessly he stumbles towards a familiar object that has miraculously appeared in his path, fingers finding their way to a pattern that requires no thought, an old sequence learned long ago.
"Hello?" The voice that answers is thick with sleep and likely confused and angry at having to pay charges for some fool with a wrong number.
"Aunt Bonnie?" The words come out unbidden, a child asking for help that the adult knows cannot come.
"Who is this?" Now the voice on the other end rises angrily. "Who the hell do you think you…"
"It's Marty." He knows now his mistake. It's not Bonnie, because that would be a miracle of the type he refuses to believe in. He's hurt someone else now, too, once again without even trying.
"Marty?" Anger turns to incredulity. "What are you doing calling at…" There is a pause while time is confirmed, "three-seventeen in the morning?"
"I don't know… I…"
He hears a sigh. "Where are you?" The voice becomes even more like that of a ghost, and he wonders for a moment if the last few years haven't all just been his imagination, and it really is her on the other end of the line. He knows it can't be, because dreams don't happen that way or last that long, even the bad ones.
He looks around and finds a couple of landmarks, giving those and a cross-street. He can hear the sound of someone moving around and a jingle of car-keys.
"Stay there, I'll come get you." Those lines ought to be reversed, he knows, and this girl whose voice he now recognises as separate from her mother's ought to be the one calling him for rescue in the middle of the night. "How did you get there anyway?"
He laughs sadly, knowing that if anyone would understand, it would be her. "I ran."
"Idiot." It's the last thing she says, hanging up and leaving him to his world of growing cold and guilt, neither one enough to overwhelm the pain.
"Thanks, Al." He says it even though he knows she's gone and hangs up, wondering where in the world her maturity came from. She's always been a wild one, forever climbing trees and getting into messes, constantly sticking her tongue out at a stuck-up world that insisted you couldn't do that and wear a twin-set and pearls at the same time. If there was a uniform for non-conformity, she'd refuse to wear it, citing common-sense. Alison Toland didn't just march to a different drummer, she'd fired the entire percussion section, replacing it all with an accordion. Maybe, to her mind, three a.m. phone-calls from mind-melted cousins just make sense. He shivers, running his hands over goose-bump covered arms. No, not a goose, more of a turkey, dumbest bird on planet Earth. He waits for her to arrive, wondering what she'll find when she gets here. A cousin-sicle, frozen and dehydrated - a well preserved corpse? Here in this exhibit we have proof that you can die from stupidity. He wonders how long she'll take to get here, realising that he didn't pick a random direction after all. Rather, he's miles north of where he started, on a run to the one place he used to always think of as 'home.' Part of him wants to keep going, to meet her partway, but he knows of no way to let her know he's planning to do so and she might lose him. He can't just leave a girl alone out here, looking for her stupid-ass cousin.
After what seems like forever, a car pulls up. "Get in, asshole." Alison's voice is dry and almost amused, yet at the same time, a little bit angry. Again, it strikes him how strange it is that his much-younger cousin has come to rescue him. She's still wearing pajamas and didn't even put on socks or shoes, driving down here in slippers. A blanket lies draped over the passenger seat, ready for him to pull around himself, and two thermal mugs grace the centre console. She thinks of everything, this girl who so many people think just drifts through life never really paying attention.
He does as he's told. She picks up the mug closest to him and holds it out, and he takes it, drinking the sweet, hot coffee gratefully.
"Where the hell have you been?" Anger wins out over amusement as she pulls away from the curb, looking for a convenient place to turn around and head back in the other direction.
"What? I…" He was here, just like he told her he'd be. Wasn't he?
"Mom dies and you've maybe been over once? God, Marty, we used to see you at least once a month, and then you just disappear?"
Oh. He's not quite sure what to say. Without Bonnie… He and Roger have never been what you'd call 'close'; they're friendly enough, but it's more like minor acquaintances than family. It never occurred to him that Alison might see things differently, or that she might miss him that much. When he was younger, yeah, he thought of himself as a misnamed Toland, but growing up taught him that just because you wish something was true doesn't mean it is. That last visit before Bonnie disappeared, he'd felt so out of touch. When she was gone… he felt like he'd been cut adrift. He remembers the waiting room, watching from a distance and knowing that was where he'd always been. He'd never been a part, instead always a little bit apart. Danny wonders why Martin adapted so well to rehab, but what Danny doesn't realise is that Martin Fitzgerald has gotten very good at walking away from things that made him feel good, but weren't real.
"I mean, you could have at least called. Before this… before you need somebody to get you out of your own trouble. You might have called and checked to make sure we were okay." Alison's fingers grip the steering wheel a little too tightly for safety.
He's still silent. How does he tell her that he just assumed they weren't, and didn't think they wanted him intruding? How does he say how much being there made him hurt, that last time, every moment expecting Bonnie to come through the door laughing at him for looking like he'd seen a ghost. How does he tell her that he felt so out of place, sitting at that table with an empty chair at one end, and not knowing anything to say? "I'm sorry," he finally says.
"That's one thing you got right. You should see yourself. You look like crap."
"Better than I feel." He stares out the window, already regretting all of this. Alison's just a kid, basically. She doesn't need all this. She's got enough garbage in her life.
"Then maybe you need to see a doctor, because when I say crap…"
"Why the fuck doesn't life come with a reset button?" He can't remember ever swearing around Alison before, and the sound of himself doing so is shocking. Back in those pseudo-family days, she was like a little sister to be protected and nurtured, and he was the provider of piggy-back rides and tickle-attacks, nothing more. "I didn't mean to put it that way. I just…"
"I don't know. Why the fuck doesn't it?" A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but it can't quite convey 'happy'. "Fuck, Marty, life's really fucking unfair that way, isn't it? I can think of a million fucking times I could have used that fucking thing. That has got to be the fuckingest unfair…"
"Okay, okay. You know the word. You've made your point."
"Fucking right, I have." She glances sideways at him. "I wasn't the one afraid of getting her mouth washed out with soap." She giggles suddenly. "Remember when you bit a big chunk off?"
He laughs a bit himself, nodding. He can't remember quite what he said that day, just the scene. They'd been playing what he thought was a friendly game of cards, with Alison kicking his ass, and something just slipped out. Bonnie had said nothing, just stood up and walked out of the room, returning to place a freshly unwrapped bar of soap in front of him, the message clear. In response, he'd picked it up, slowly and deliberately sinking his teeth into it. Jamie had called him gross, turning her head away, and even Bonnie had winced. Alison had just laughed her head off. It took a long time to get the taste out of his mouth, Bonnie telling him that it served him right for being a smart-ass. He misses those days so much. "I miss your mom. I could always talk to her, you know?"
Alison shrugs. "Kind of. But she was my mom." She's quiet for a moment. "What did you need to talk about, Marty?"
"I… nothing." He can't tell her. There is no reset button, and sometimes ignorance is not only bliss, but knowledge is hell.
"Bullshit. You brought Mom up and said she was easy to talk to. You look like crap, Marty, and you're acting like you haven't even got shit for brains."
"Why aren't you taking me home?" He finally clues in that they're still headed north.
"I am. You clearly can't be left on your own, and I want to get back to bed. You can use the guest room."
"Your dad's not going to be happy about this." It's funny, though, that Alison answered the phone instead of him. Not laughable funny, but…
"I'd be surprised if he even noticed." She mutters it just loud enough to be heard, but quietly enough that she can claim not to have said anything.
"Oh?" He sips some more of his coffee. This addiction they still let him get away with. He thinks it would be easier to give up breathing than give up caffeine at this point. Most people wouldn't drink coffee at three in the morning on the grounds that it would keep them up. He's developed such a resistance that he'd need ten times this much, just to feel it. Alison knows him well.
Her jaw trembles a little and she juts it out stubbornly. He recognises the look: she's not going to let this get to her, it says. She's going to deal, no matter how much it hurts. "Let's just say he's not adjusting well." Her words are tight and clipped and it's clear she doesn't believe them.
"It's been four years," Martin says. He knows it can't be easy - if anyone qualified as the perfect couple, it was Bonnie and Roger - but even a classical mourning only lasted twelve months.
"Don't I know it. Jamie says it's not easy for him… is it just supposed to be easy for me? It wasn't her college fund that got sacrificed to pay those godsdamned medical bills, but I'm supposed to be the one to just roll with it and come up with a new plan. He's allowed to mope around and be miserable. I'm just supposed to grow up."
It sounds like you have. Martin knows that the money isn't the issue - she'd sacrifice a million college funds if it had kept her mother alive, but the sacrifice was for the chance to lose both. Alison had a lot of dreams, and Bonnie would be devastated to know her girl wouldn't be able to live them. Jamie had already gained her independence and a family of her own, but it sounds like Alison has gotten trapped by guilt. Leaving could be seen as abandoning her family and leaving her father with no one to lean on. It's not fair, but people aren't always about fairness. "Have you got any plans? Student loans… going part-time… I can co-sign something for you if it comes to that."
"It's just… it's just so fucking unfair. Moms are supposed to be there when you graduate, or you get married… Jamie got all that." She forgets to shoulder check and nearly misses someone who expresses their displeasure with a horn. Martin holds his tongue, despite the newly released adrenaline running through his system. Yelling isn't going to help things. He does, however, swear under his breath.
"You're the one who got me out of bed at three in the morning," she reminds him. "What the hell for, anyway?"
"I don't know," he lies. He's not going to suck her into this. As she just demonstrated by nearly getting them killed, she's got enough complication in her life without trying to sort out his.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Marty. Calling a dead woman at three-in-the-morning is really messed up. 'Time to talk to a shrink' messed up. So what gives?"
"You're not a shrink," he shoots back, dryly. He can't go to his shrink about this, either. Lisa and Jack… they've got some sort of previous relationship. He's not sure what it is, but they don't act like normal shrink/patient. Somehow, even the rule of confidentiality isn't enough to overcome his discomfort; it would still feel too much like ratting Jack out. Maybe that needs to happen, but he doesn't want to step on Viv's fingers going over her head, either.
"No, I'm just the girl spending the gas money she hasn't got so you don't die on some street corner. So what the hell is going on with you?"
"It's work stuff, okay?" He closes his eyes but it's a mistake. He can still see Paula Solis, cringing away from him. He can still hear her talking, calmly telling Viv how she killed the one decent person left in her life for fear of going back to something worse than death. The guys that did that to her, they thought that 'at all costs' was okay. He used to think that didn't happen to normal people; he used to think that a normal human being could find a line and stop, but he's learned better. They've become acclimated, all of them. It starts with a raised voice, then getting up into someone's face. Intimidating a guy a little, just shaking him a bit. Then one day you look back and realise you've lost your anchor and there's no way to go back. Hell, Carlos probably was a decent guy when Elena met him, but bit by bit he worked his way up where to kidnapping and threatening his own family made perfect sense. "I'll pay you back."
"It's not about the money, Marty. It's about living up to what you've led others to believe. Mom was always so proud of you - you would've thought you were her kid. She even said that once, when you were over and I wanted to go to the movies and no one would take me: 'go ask your brother.' You don't get to do that, and then just run away."
"Why not?" He looks away, out the window, his voice sad instead of bitter like usual. "Everybody else does."
"You're not everybody else. You're the guy Mom always told us to look up to. You trying to tell me she was wrong about that?"
"You're the one having to drive out and pick me up in the middle of the night. What do you think?" Even as he speaks, he feels like shit. There was nothing in her voice, but the reflection in the window looks like it's crying, and when he looks over to confirm, her cheeks are definitely wet. Sure, it's raining out, now, but the windows are closed tight. Great. First he terrifies an already broken girl, and now he's made another one cry. When did this happen? When did he become this brittle, broken shell with edges that cut deeply anyone who gets too close? Even worse, how come he saw none of this happening? How could he not notice that Jack was out of control? How, in God's name could he have thought that - even for the briefest fraction of a second - there might be some validity to Jack's point of view, if it could save a life? He's still got his anchor, but it's not attached to anything; it's just a weight to drag him down.
She doesn't answer; the only sounds breaking the silence are the cars passing in the other lanes, the hiss of water under their own tires and the squeak-thump of a broken wiper-blade. At any other time, the sound would be annoying, but now it seems only suitable. Nothing around here works right, not even the car. He wonders what its story is, what it would say if it had to stand up and say, "Hello, my name is Ford T. and…"
Goddamn, he hates himself. Can't he get through one simple day in his entire life without screwing something up, pissing somebody off or letting them down? It shouldn't be that hard. Other people manage it. He puts the coffee cup back and turns away, unable to make himself think of anything to say that might fix this. Even if he tries, he's only going to make it worse. He's good at making things worse, but that's not exactly a resume-ready talent.
"Even if it's work-stuff, you still owe me some explanation. Okay, maybe not details that are protected by 'national security'," she risks an accident by pulling her hands from the wheel to make fingerquotes around the words, "but a little more than the 'whatever'," this time it's a handwave, "bullshit you're giving me. I mean, look at you. It's October and you're in shorts. You could die dressed like that. You think I want to go to another funeral?"
"No," he mumbles. At her age it should be all-night parties, not rescue-parties.
"Then why? What's so godsdamn horrible that it's not only keeping you up at night, but making you act like a moron? Or like…" her voice catches, "like someone who's trying to kill himself. Is that what you're doing? "
Is it? He's not sure. He's certainly not going to tell her that, though. He's too worn out to bring himself to lie, however, so he simply doesn't answer.
"Marty…"
It's less the semi-threatening tone, and more the name he hasn't used since he was a kid. "It's Martin, now." He's not sure why he says it, but the effect is immediate. Her breathing trembles ever so slightly as her teeth grind together and the fingers that were a second ago willing to fly through the air now grip the steering wheel almost too tightly. Shit. First he makes her cry, and now he tells her that she's not even family. "Look, I didn't mean…"
"No, Martin, I think you've made yourself perfectly clear." The chilly temperatures outside seem tropical when compared to the current climate of the car.
"No, I don't think I have." He combats her iciness with heat. "I fucked that up, okay? That's what I do, and I'm trying not to get you caught up in it. You've got enough problems."
"So? Isn't that what family is for? To share around the problems so everybody is fucked up, but maybe a little bit less? Or even just be there to hug or curl up with on the couch watching movies and ready to cover your eyes during all the scary and/or sexy parts?"
"You hated that," he tells her.
"Not really, because it meant I got to watch all the good movies, not just the ones Mom and Dad thought were good for me. It was like you trusted me to be a grown-up, at least mostly, anyway."
"Well, this isn't a movie you want to watch." He wishes he could quit seeing it. Instead, it's burned itself into a loop that plays across the backs of his eyelids.
"You know, Jamie and Dad didn't want to call you."
The non sequitur would be frustrating if he was talking to anyone else, but from Alison it's conversation as usual. He's learned how to sort things out and make the connections that aren't stated. "When your mom…"
"Yeah. They just figured she'd come back, you know? They wanted to sit around wringing their hands and just… but I knew you'd help." She stops. "I'm sorry we acted like shit."
"Hey, she was your mom." He knows she's referring to events at the hospital, when it was 'family only' with visiting rights and somehow he got shunted to the side.
"Yeah, but she woke up and asked about you. 'Where's Marty?' She was dying and she was worried about you. Now I see why."
"I'm not the guy you grew up with," he says, honestly. The cousin she knew wasn't a broken-down drug-addict with all the moral fibre of a starving rat. The person she remembers was mortally wounded by someone else's death, tortured by the belief that comfort meant salvation and finally finished off not on a deserted street, but months later when his soul became possessed by a need greater than that for life itself. Simply, Bonnie struck him down and his own weakness finished him off.
"No, you just always pretended not to be the guy you are. That's why Mom was so scared, wasn't it? She knew that you're completely incapable of looking after yourself, didn't she?"
"Excuse me, but I've been looking after myself for almost my entire life. In case you've forgotten, I've been supporting myself since I was seventeen, so don't tell me…" Anger returns at her attack. It's all he can do not to point out that she's still living at home at an age where he not only busted his ass at school, but was holding down a job to cover the rent.
"Oh, that's what you call it when you get other people to feed you? Supporting yourself?" Alison's tone turns nasty.
"What?" He didn't think she knew about that, because he didn't think Bonnie really knew how serious things were. He tried not to make too big a deal over her 'care packages' that she sent like most college students got from their parents, so she wouldn't know that more than just sometimes it was the only food he had to eat. He didn't want her feeling sorry for him and felt guilty that she assumed even that small responsibility of supplying him with gifts, something his parents never offered.
"You really thought she was going to let you starve? Just because you were too stubborn and stupid to ask didn't mean she couldn't figure it out. You'd be dead if it wasn't for Mom, and you're doing it again. You haven't got an ounce of common sense, let alone survival instinct."
"You know nothing about my survival instinct." He wouldn't have made it this far in life without one. Striking out on his own was about survival. Between his father's plans and his mother's delusions, he had to get out, one way or another. How is he supposed to tell her that death really was an option?
"Yeah… that's why I'm here… because you're so good at wanting to stay alive that you went running in the middle of the night, in October, in shorts, because of the health benefits."
"It isn't your problem."
"Hello! I had to drive out at three in the morning to rescue you from a street corner. That definitely makes it my problem. You are fam-i-ly." She enunciates every syllable, as though it's simply a language comprehension problem. "But you're right, you're not the cousin I grew up with, because I distinctly remember looking up to him as being smarter than me."
"Maybe that's a good reason to forget about it, then." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, pulling the blanket a little tighter around him and burying his nose in his coffee cup, pretending to drink.
"Except I can't, because my mother taught me to be kind to idiots." Alison makes a face. 'Kind' isn't the word for it.
"I'm serious, Al, this isn't something you want to deal with." You'd think she'd clue in, due to his reluctance to deal with it.
"There are a lot of things I don't want to deal with. Do you think I wanted to deal with my family falling apart? Do you think I wanted to deal with a call where I barely got to say 'Hello' before I hear 'Oh my God, Marty's been shot!'? Do you think I wanted to get a phone-call in the middle of the night from some freak asking for my mother, when he was at the godsdamn funeral and ought to know she's fucking-well dead?"
He finally figures out what's been bugging him about her figure of speech. "When did you become pagan and start using the plural?"
"Don't change the subject, and it was when Jamie got ultra-religious and said Mom's death was part of God's plan and we should just accept it, and learn from it to have more faith in him."
"I didn't expect you to leave the Church." He's more than a little surprised. Alison never had the same difficulty reconciling religion and reality that he did.
"I'm still thinking about it, and we're changing the subject back. You are going to tell me what is going on with you."
"No, I'm not. And I think your mom would be kind of disappointed in you having a crisis of faith over her death." It was one of the few things Bonnie never quite understood as much as she tried to accept it. Every now and then she'd ask him about it, or muse quietly about what happened to the altar-boy she'd once known, and he'd tell her that he just didn't have what it took to believe, anymore. She'd always seem just a little disappointed when he'd turn down invitations to join them at Mass on holidays, and the only time he's ever regretted his decision was in the middle of her funeral service, unable to find the words for even a simple prayer or goodbye. Faith had been important to Bonnie, and he wonders now how she ever managed to reconcile that with helping people die. Last he checked, Thou Shalt Not Kill didn't come with a codicil reading except in limited circumstances such as the preservation of life or elimination of suffering or when warranted by decree of law.
"This coming from you. The guy who didn't go to his own Confirmation because he said the Church conflicted with his beliefs."
"I didn't want to lie to God, okay?" It's a testament to how wound up Paula and the whole thing with Jack has got him that he's willing to discuss this, instead. The only reason Danny knows anything about Martin's religious past is that he asked, probably trying to gauge how his complete-stranger/friend would react to the more spiritual component of the Anonymous program. He stayed deliberately vague, too, just muttering something about being 'raised Catholic' and leaving it at that. He's pretty sure Danny thinks he's just lapsed and will work it out sooner or later. Not a lot of people know the level of thought and effort Martin put into the decision. "You didn't have to deal with what I did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He sighs, not sure how to answer. Bonnie had faith, but his mother believes. "You know your aunt. There's no halfway." Funnily, though his mother fails to find the humour in it, it's one of the few character traits they share. She believes completely and fully, and he refused to commit because he knows he doesn't. There are some aspects that make sense and he can accept, but some isn't enough, not when it comes to God. He's not an atheist, not even close. God he believes in. It's all the rules man has come up with for Him that Martin has trouble with.
"That's an excuse?" Alison shakes her head. "When have you ever used your mom as a role model?"
"See? You don't understand."
"That isn't what put you out on a street corner in the middle of the night." Apparently Alison wasn't as distracted as he thought.
"Oh, yeah?" He's not entirely sure it's a bluff. Maybe if he had a way of fooling himself into thinking there was some great plan for even greater good behind everything, he wouldn't have needed to go seeking oblivion. He's not like Danny. Danny has two faiths he can draw on, but Martin can't fully believe in the recovery movement, either. It's too… social for his tastes. It's not that he wants to be alone, but prefers the simple comfort of just having someone else there. He doesn't like to talk about his problems, and despite the rules and nature of the program, can't quite bring himself to believe that a roomful of addicts can be trusted. He knows damn well he can't be trusted.
"You phoned a dead woman." Alison seems completely unwilling to let that part go. "I don't think there's been a louder cry for help in the history of cry-for-helpdom."
"No, I phoned a familiar number." He wasn't sure at the time exactly which one it was, so that counts in his favour, right?
"And tried talking to a dead woman! You can't get out of it, Marty, Martin, or whomever the hell you want to be. Should I make it Agent Fitzgerald? Would that be formal enough for you?"
"Will you get off that? I said I was sorry!" His coffee slops over the top of the cup as his hand develops a sudden case of the rage-induced shakes. "I'm at the end of a very long and very bad day, and it's become an automatic reflex to correct people. Most of the people who call me that don't mean it in a friendly way, alright?"
"Well, I'm not them. I'm the cousin who's called you that her entire life, okay? Who's giving up her sleep, just to rescue you from your nightmares when it ought to be the other way around. I think I deserve a little more than reflex."
"And for the hundredth time, I am sorry. Compared to what some people go through in this world, that is really not a hell of a lot to bear." He feels tears pricking at his eyes, and blinks hard in an attempt to hold them back.
"Says Mr. Touchy."
"You haven't got a fucking clue." He's done playing nice, now. He never realised she was such a self-centred little bitch, before.
"Well enlighten me, then."
"Try going through so much hell that you'll kill the one decent person you know, just to avoid even the threat of going back. Try being so scared that hitting someone in the back of the head feels like self-defence." He doesn't mean to say it, but he can't help himself anymore.
"Is that it?" Her voice is softer and calmer, and he can't believe he actually fell for the trap. "Did you see that?"
"Yes. No. I don't… stop asking me about it."
"I want to know, Marty. Not because I'm some… accident tourist or something, but because you're family and I care about you. Okay? I don't want to get another phone call telling me I'd better hurry because you might be dead when I get there. I don't want to have to lie to nurses and tell them I'm your sister just to get visitation rights. And I really don't need the stress of one of your colleagues showing up at the door asking if I'd seen or heard from you recently." She falls silent for a moment, and when she speaks again he can barely hear her. "And if they do, I'd like to be able to say 'yes.'"
"I'm sorry." He sighs, closing his eyes as he realises what she means. "I really should do a better job of that. After all, your mom died, not you."
"Or you. It'd just be nice to talk sometimes without someone's life having to be at risk. You know, just sit down, have coffee or talk on the phone like normal people? I know for us that's a stretch, but… sometimes it's nice just to talk to someone. Someone you don't have to explain twenty years of history to, because they already know it… you know?"
He nods slowly. He does know. That's one of the troubles with talking to a shrink or a friend or even in a meeting… there are so many things that have to be rehashed and laid out, things that don't make sense or sound important in exposition, but mean everything if you were there.
At the same time, it's hard to do that when he doesn't see an adult in the next seat, but a sulking ten-year-old grounded for beating up boys, or a sick six-year-old, sniffling her way through a germy hug, the worst problem in her life the fact that her tummy hurts. Even though, intellectually, he knows it's too late, he still wants that to be the worst thing she can imagine. He doesn't want her to worry about his drug problem, his sleeping problems, his work problems and his lack of social life. Big brothers are supposed to protect little sisters, not unload all their issues on to them. Yet, if this conversation is any clue, he's not going to get away with simply playing sympathetic listener. Alison is ten times more stubborn than he is. Worse, she's liable to ask his father if she really gets worried. What's going on with Marty? Then Dad will wonder, and he'll really be in for it then. It's one thing to have his own doubts about Jack. It's quite another to instil them in someone who already doesn't like the guy and has the power to do something about it.
"Except, you don't mean that." Alison sees right through him. It really is uncanny how much like her mother she is. Bonnie used to be the only person who could always catch him out in a lie. Even Dad was easily fooled, most of the time. Never Bonnie, though. In a weird way, it's almost comforting. At least there's still someone who can keep him under a bit of control. Someone who might stop him before he decides to take that one tiny step that takes him over the line between human and monster.
"Talking's just not my strong point." Even that has elements of a lie, here. If there was one person he could always talk to, it was Bonnie. She always had time to listen to him, which is why he still hates himself for not doing the same for her. She'd wanted to talk, wanted to tell him that things weren't all right and he'd cut her off before she could even get started. He tries to blink back the tears welling up and doesn't succeed. He wants to tell her he's sorry, but he can't. He didn't quite manage to say it, instead praying for a miracle he didn't believe in.
"Mom said that, once. You were bugging me, and I told her to tell you to shut up, and she said she was quite happy to hear you talk. She said that it was when you stopped talking we had to worry about you." Alison shakes her head. "She was always telling us how to look after you. I thought it was weird, sometimes… but she just said that everything's not like it seems." She pauses, thoughtfully. "She said you were very good at seeming."
"Your mom worried too much." He feels a stab of guilt at the words. Bonnie never played the 'if you can't say anything nice' card on him, mostly out of her fear that he would say nothing at all, but it doesn't stop him from thinking he should have bit his tongue.
"No, she didn't, because Dad is lost without her, and you're no better. I mean, look at you. You're not even Catholic and you're trying to do penance… and it's for somebody else! You didn't hurt anybody, did you?"
"I scared the crap out of her."
"Well, then, she was definitely screwed up before then. But you don't just feel sorry for her, you're acting like you're personally responsible. What's next… you killed Mom because you didn't want to see her suffer?"
"I…" How is he supposed to answer that? Alison knows damn well how her mother died.
"The idea's not new to me … or do you forget what we found out she was up to? What I'm saying is that you're not responsible for other people. Shit happens. If the world was fair, Mom wouldn't have gotten cancer and Dad wouldn't have gotten the way he's gotten and you wouldn't have gotten shot and that girl you're talking about would never have ended up in a state where you could freak her out. It's not fair. It just isn't. And you are a lot of things, Marty, but you sure as hell are not God. Stop trying to be."
Once again Danny's words echo in his head, the man washing his hands of Jack's decision. "Somebody needs to. Otherwise it comes down to 'just following orders' and 'I didn't do it' being excuses to let things happen."
"Fine. That's great… but when they've already happened, you can't keep blaming yourself for it. It's one thing to stand and watch and pretend you can't see and it's another to be somewhere else when it happens and only find out later." She shakes her head. "Grow up, Marty. Only two year olds believe everything in the world is their fault."
"I just wish I could have done something. I wish… I just want things to be the way they were."
"I'm sorry, but I am not giving up my driver's license just to satisfy your need to live in the past. The way they 'were', I had to rely on other people to get places, and I can only imagine trying to convince someone else to do this."
"I'm just…" The sleep that eluded him earlier is now sneaking back to take over his brain. He can't think clearly anymore. He vaguely wonders if she put anything in his coffee. "Did you spike this?"
"Yeah… my mom was a nurse, so I clearly don't know any better than to give an addict drugs." She rolls her eyes at his startlement. "Please. Cut me some slack. Not only did you only come over that one time to visit, but you rifled the medicine cabinet. Were you hoping that even after two years we hadn't got around to throwing out all Mom's old pills? You wouldn't believe how pissed Jamie got when I mentioned it to her, 'cause I was worried. She figured the only reason you did come was to score."
He closes his eyes, not wanting to admit how close Jamie was to being right. "And you?"
"I like to think it wasn't just a fake-out. I mean, there've been lots of other times when you've gone for ages without showing up, and then Mom would remind you… maybe I just want to believe it's your really bad social skills that are the problem."
"That's part of it… but…"
"But you were also getting desperate, right? 'Cause the doctors only prescribe for so long before they cut you off on the grounds that you might get hooked. I remember that. I remember being told how Mom had to be in pain at the end, because they couldn't give her anything more than they had. She was dying and they worried about addiction. And you've always been paranoid. Someone might have seen you at a street-dealer, so that would've been absolute last resort, right?"
"How do you know so much?" It damn well better not be personal experience or… what? He can hardly claim higher moral ground, there. "And what were you doing? Spying on me in the bathroom? Because that would be sick, Al… even in the strange reality you live in."
"No… but you organised things when you were finished. You're the only person in the family who lines up the bottles."
He doesn't have an answer for that, mostly because he didn't realise he'd done it. "Oh." He didn't do that with Gina Hill's cabinet when he stole hers, but he was in more of a hurry, then, not to mention more desperate, and the bottle had practically been in plain sight, taunting him. Looking for Bonnie's had been more along the lines of insurance, just in case he couldn't charm another prescription out of an unsympathetic MD. By the time he got to Gina's place he knew he couldn't.
"And that's another thing why I'm not talking to Jamie. How is what happened to you any different than what happened to Mom? If she'd lived and it'd happened to her… these things happen, right? It's not like you just decided to start taking drugs one day, or did them at a party or because everyone else was. You didn't get a say in the matter… you were on them from before you even woke up. Of course since Ron has always hated your guts, it's easy for her to side with him. Her oh-so-perfect husband who cheated on her when she was pregnant."
"Well, if it's any consolation, I could never stand Ron." This is why he stays as much out of 'family' as possible. No matter what the family, there's always too much melodrama.
"But Jamie loves him, so what are we supposed to do? But the point is, I know these things about you, Marty. You're my quasi-big-brother, and that's what little sisters do. I used to always read Jamie's diary… why do you think I asked you to teach me how to pick locks?" She closes her eyes briefly, and it's all he can do not to scream that she's driving and will she please watch the road. She's worse than Sam, and he didn't think that was possible. "Let's put it this way. When you found out about Mom and what she… did… did you hate her? My mom murdered people."
"She helped them do it for themselves. It's…"
"Still something that boils down to conspiracy. What I'm saying is that there aren't a lot of deep, dark secrets that are deeper or darker than that. There isn't much you can say that's going to stack up. You can trust me. Once you learn to deal with the fact that your mother killed people, you know you can handle anything."
"That doesn't mean I want you to." Still, he feels a measure of certainty creeping back. All his life there was only one person he didn't want to disappoint, ever. Everything he's done was either with the hope of living up to Bonnie's expectation or with the relief that she wasn't around to see him fail. He realises, now, that Alison has that same faith - steady, unwavering and full of forgiveness. Unconditional love, something he never found with his own mother and something that took him forever to recognise.
"And maybe I don't want to look the other way and pretend I couldn't see."
He nods. "Fair enough, I guess." Then he shakes his head. "You've grown up… and I didn't see any of it."
"Maybe that'll teach you to pay attention." She finally pulls into the driveway, parking just outside the garage doors. "Bed's made… nobody's slept there in ages, though. I think you were the last, when we wouldn't let you drive home after the funeral, cause… well, you couldn't drive." She's out of the car almost before she's finished talking.
"That's fine." He reluctantly abandons the warmth of the car and his blanket for the outside, hurrying to catch up to her and grab her in a one-armed hug. "Thanks."
"You're an idiot." The grey light of pre-dawn is just starting to appear, providing just enough light for Alison to fit the key into the front door without a lot of fumbling. "But we'll keep you anyway."
He hugs her again, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm glad." He can't help but laugh as she pushes him towards the first-floor bedroom and heads for the stairs. Now that he thinks about it, in defiance of all logic, this was where he was running all along. Safe harbour. Home.
Title: "Anchorage"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #69 Thunder
Word Count: 8,150 (approx)
Rating: R (language)
Spoilers: Up to and including 6x03 "Res Ipsa"
Credits: Thank you squeelated and jennukes for the beta.
Author's Notes:: This took me forever to write, I don't know why. I started right after "Res Ipsa" originally aired (I couldn't rewatch, my DVD recorder had an electronic meltdown before I could finalise the disc), and by the time I finally finished, we were halfway through the season and into the writers' strike. So, if you can, harken back to that episode and ignore all that came after… not that it's that significant.
Anchorage
He can't sleep. He feels sick. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that girl jump, expecting him to hurt her. He's not that intimidating. He has trouble getting people to take him seriously, forget scaring them. He knows what it's like to almost die, to think you're going to die or even wish you could, but he doesn't think he can ever understand the level of fear she possessed. He grew up in terror, yet can't imagine one so deep that someone like him - scrawny, baby-faced Marty Fitzgerald - could be perceived as a threat.
That isn't the only thing that makes his blood sound like thunder in his ears, the way it does when he stops running after a good sprint and his heart and breath haven't quite caught up. How, he wonders, could Jack have even considered doing what he did? What the hell was going through the man's brain? When did 'at any cost' become acceptable?
I used to trust you. Hell, he used to think that Jack had the kind of attitude he wished he could possess. He'd even tried to model himself after the guy for a while, an experiment that has now come to a screaming halt. "Not on my watch.", Viv said, when Danny pointed out the futility of trying to stop Jack from anything. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do," had been Danny's statement, and in that moment Martin had realised just how bad things were. Danny had once had faith, too, yet now the man who - in this modern world - could still believe that wine could truly become blood and bread transform to flesh, even he had Thomas-like thoughts. At that moment, Martin knew that everything was changing and as usual, he was the last to figure it out.
He's not even sure if he has figured it out in time. What's going to happen to this team that was once closer than family but is now finding its loyalties divided? If this were a book, he could just skip to the end, but he's a character in this story and has no way to find out but to live through all the messy details. This is life: happy endings belong to other people.
He sits in his bed, fighting an urge older and stronger than the one he goes to those monotonous twice-weekly meetings about. It's late, he tells himself. He's past that, he argues silently. Ultimately, though, he knows he's going to lose.
He gets up and crosses to the wardrobe, not even bothering to sigh. He pulls on a pair of shorts and some socks, despite the fact that it's chilly out and perhaps sweats would be better. He's not thinking about those things, he's just focussed, even obsessed, on the goal of getting away. Even as he sits down at the door to tie his shoes, he's not thinking of where he might go, he just knows that he can't stay here. Here isn't safe anymore. There's no stability left; the rules haven't just changed, they've been obliterated. A life without rules isn't a life he can deal with. He'd rather be dead.
He hits the street, picking what he thinks is a random direction and starting to run. He's not sure when he plans to stop, either; maybe he'll quit when his body collapses and he just rolls into an alley, or ditch somewhere to die from exposure. Maybe he'll get hit by a car and just forget who he is so all of the doubt won't even matter. He's not about to kill himself, but he's not sure if he cares whether or not someone else does it for him. Until then, he'll run, straight on until dawn if he has to, past that if he can. He grabbed a bottle of water on the way out the door, nothing else, but none of that matters. This isn't a race, he doesn't care if he runs out of energy, rather that is the point. He needs something, and if he can't have opiates, then endorphins will have to do.
He doesn't quite make dawn before another instinct kicks in, a desperate craving not to run, but to hide. It's darker now, and he's shivering from overstress and underinsulation. Mindlessly he stumbles towards a familiar object that has miraculously appeared in his path, fingers finding their way to a pattern that requires no thought, an old sequence learned long ago.
"Hello?" The voice that answers is thick with sleep and likely confused and angry at having to pay charges for some fool with a wrong number.
"Aunt Bonnie?" The words come out unbidden, a child asking for help that the adult knows cannot come.
"Who is this?" Now the voice on the other end rises angrily. "Who the hell do you think you…"
"It's Marty." He knows now his mistake. It's not Bonnie, because that would be a miracle of the type he refuses to believe in. He's hurt someone else now, too, once again without even trying.
"Marty?" Anger turns to incredulity. "What are you doing calling at…" There is a pause while time is confirmed, "three-seventeen in the morning?"
"I don't know… I…"
He hears a sigh. "Where are you?" The voice becomes even more like that of a ghost, and he wonders for a moment if the last few years haven't all just been his imagination, and it really is her on the other end of the line. He knows it can't be, because dreams don't happen that way or last that long, even the bad ones.
He looks around and finds a couple of landmarks, giving those and a cross-street. He can hear the sound of someone moving around and a jingle of car-keys.
"Stay there, I'll come get you." Those lines ought to be reversed, he knows, and this girl whose voice he now recognises as separate from her mother's ought to be the one calling him for rescue in the middle of the night. "How did you get there anyway?"
He laughs sadly, knowing that if anyone would understand, it would be her. "I ran."
"Idiot." It's the last thing she says, hanging up and leaving him to his world of growing cold and guilt, neither one enough to overwhelm the pain.
"Thanks, Al." He says it even though he knows she's gone and hangs up, wondering where in the world her maturity came from. She's always been a wild one, forever climbing trees and getting into messes, constantly sticking her tongue out at a stuck-up world that insisted you couldn't do that and wear a twin-set and pearls at the same time. If there was a uniform for non-conformity, she'd refuse to wear it, citing common-sense. Alison Toland didn't just march to a different drummer, she'd fired the entire percussion section, replacing it all with an accordion. Maybe, to her mind, three a.m. phone-calls from mind-melted cousins just make sense. He shivers, running his hands over goose-bump covered arms. No, not a goose, more of a turkey, dumbest bird on planet Earth. He waits for her to arrive, wondering what she'll find when she gets here. A cousin-sicle, frozen and dehydrated - a well preserved corpse? Here in this exhibit we have proof that you can die from stupidity. He wonders how long she'll take to get here, realising that he didn't pick a random direction after all. Rather, he's miles north of where he started, on a run to the one place he used to always think of as 'home.' Part of him wants to keep going, to meet her partway, but he knows of no way to let her know he's planning to do so and she might lose him. He can't just leave a girl alone out here, looking for her stupid-ass cousin.
After what seems like forever, a car pulls up. "Get in, asshole." Alison's voice is dry and almost amused, yet at the same time, a little bit angry. Again, it strikes him how strange it is that his much-younger cousin has come to rescue him. She's still wearing pajamas and didn't even put on socks or shoes, driving down here in slippers. A blanket lies draped over the passenger seat, ready for him to pull around himself, and two thermal mugs grace the centre console. She thinks of everything, this girl who so many people think just drifts through life never really paying attention.
He does as he's told. She picks up the mug closest to him and holds it out, and he takes it, drinking the sweet, hot coffee gratefully.
"Where the hell have you been?" Anger wins out over amusement as she pulls away from the curb, looking for a convenient place to turn around and head back in the other direction.
"What? I…" He was here, just like he told her he'd be. Wasn't he?
"Mom dies and you've maybe been over once? God, Marty, we used to see you at least once a month, and then you just disappear?"
Oh. He's not quite sure what to say. Without Bonnie… He and Roger have never been what you'd call 'close'; they're friendly enough, but it's more like minor acquaintances than family. It never occurred to him that Alison might see things differently, or that she might miss him that much. When he was younger, yeah, he thought of himself as a misnamed Toland, but growing up taught him that just because you wish something was true doesn't mean it is. That last visit before Bonnie disappeared, he'd felt so out of touch. When she was gone… he felt like he'd been cut adrift. He remembers the waiting room, watching from a distance and knowing that was where he'd always been. He'd never been a part, instead always a little bit apart. Danny wonders why Martin adapted so well to rehab, but what Danny doesn't realise is that Martin Fitzgerald has gotten very good at walking away from things that made him feel good, but weren't real.
"I mean, you could have at least called. Before this… before you need somebody to get you out of your own trouble. You might have called and checked to make sure we were okay." Alison's fingers grip the steering wheel a little too tightly for safety.
He's still silent. How does he tell her that he just assumed they weren't, and didn't think they wanted him intruding? How does he say how much being there made him hurt, that last time, every moment expecting Bonnie to come through the door laughing at him for looking like he'd seen a ghost. How does he tell her that he felt so out of place, sitting at that table with an empty chair at one end, and not knowing anything to say? "I'm sorry," he finally says.
"That's one thing you got right. You should see yourself. You look like crap."
"Better than I feel." He stares out the window, already regretting all of this. Alison's just a kid, basically. She doesn't need all this. She's got enough garbage in her life.
"Then maybe you need to see a doctor, because when I say crap…"
"Why the fuck doesn't life come with a reset button?" He can't remember ever swearing around Alison before, and the sound of himself doing so is shocking. Back in those pseudo-family days, she was like a little sister to be protected and nurtured, and he was the provider of piggy-back rides and tickle-attacks, nothing more. "I didn't mean to put it that way. I just…"
"I don't know. Why the fuck doesn't it?" A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but it can't quite convey 'happy'. "Fuck, Marty, life's really fucking unfair that way, isn't it? I can think of a million fucking times I could have used that fucking thing. That has got to be the fuckingest unfair…"
"Okay, okay. You know the word. You've made your point."
"Fucking right, I have." She glances sideways at him. "I wasn't the one afraid of getting her mouth washed out with soap." She giggles suddenly. "Remember when you bit a big chunk off?"
He laughs a bit himself, nodding. He can't remember quite what he said that day, just the scene. They'd been playing what he thought was a friendly game of cards, with Alison kicking his ass, and something just slipped out. Bonnie had said nothing, just stood up and walked out of the room, returning to place a freshly unwrapped bar of soap in front of him, the message clear. In response, he'd picked it up, slowly and deliberately sinking his teeth into it. Jamie had called him gross, turning her head away, and even Bonnie had winced. Alison had just laughed her head off. It took a long time to get the taste out of his mouth, Bonnie telling him that it served him right for being a smart-ass. He misses those days so much. "I miss your mom. I could always talk to her, you know?"
Alison shrugs. "Kind of. But she was my mom." She's quiet for a moment. "What did you need to talk about, Marty?"
"I… nothing." He can't tell her. There is no reset button, and sometimes ignorance is not only bliss, but knowledge is hell.
"Bullshit. You brought Mom up and said she was easy to talk to. You look like crap, Marty, and you're acting like you haven't even got shit for brains."
"Why aren't you taking me home?" He finally clues in that they're still headed north.
"I am. You clearly can't be left on your own, and I want to get back to bed. You can use the guest room."
"Your dad's not going to be happy about this." It's funny, though, that Alison answered the phone instead of him. Not laughable funny, but…
"I'd be surprised if he even noticed." She mutters it just loud enough to be heard, but quietly enough that she can claim not to have said anything.
"Oh?" He sips some more of his coffee. This addiction they still let him get away with. He thinks it would be easier to give up breathing than give up caffeine at this point. Most people wouldn't drink coffee at three in the morning on the grounds that it would keep them up. He's developed such a resistance that he'd need ten times this much, just to feel it. Alison knows him well.
Her jaw trembles a little and she juts it out stubbornly. He recognises the look: she's not going to let this get to her, it says. She's going to deal, no matter how much it hurts. "Let's just say he's not adjusting well." Her words are tight and clipped and it's clear she doesn't believe them.
"It's been four years," Martin says. He knows it can't be easy - if anyone qualified as the perfect couple, it was Bonnie and Roger - but even a classical mourning only lasted twelve months.
"Don't I know it. Jamie says it's not easy for him… is it just supposed to be easy for me? It wasn't her college fund that got sacrificed to pay those godsdamned medical bills, but I'm supposed to be the one to just roll with it and come up with a new plan. He's allowed to mope around and be miserable. I'm just supposed to grow up."
It sounds like you have. Martin knows that the money isn't the issue - she'd sacrifice a million college funds if it had kept her mother alive, but the sacrifice was for the chance to lose both. Alison had a lot of dreams, and Bonnie would be devastated to know her girl wouldn't be able to live them. Jamie had already gained her independence and a family of her own, but it sounds like Alison has gotten trapped by guilt. Leaving could be seen as abandoning her family and leaving her father with no one to lean on. It's not fair, but people aren't always about fairness. "Have you got any plans? Student loans… going part-time… I can co-sign something for you if it comes to that."
"It's just… it's just so fucking unfair. Moms are supposed to be there when you graduate, or you get married… Jamie got all that." She forgets to shoulder check and nearly misses someone who expresses their displeasure with a horn. Martin holds his tongue, despite the newly released adrenaline running through his system. Yelling isn't going to help things. He does, however, swear under his breath.
"You're the one who got me out of bed at three in the morning," she reminds him. "What the hell for, anyway?"
"I don't know," he lies. He's not going to suck her into this. As she just demonstrated by nearly getting them killed, she's got enough complication in her life without trying to sort out his.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Marty. Calling a dead woman at three-in-the-morning is really messed up. 'Time to talk to a shrink' messed up. So what gives?"
"You're not a shrink," he shoots back, dryly. He can't go to his shrink about this, either. Lisa and Jack… they've got some sort of previous relationship. He's not sure what it is, but they don't act like normal shrink/patient. Somehow, even the rule of confidentiality isn't enough to overcome his discomfort; it would still feel too much like ratting Jack out. Maybe that needs to happen, but he doesn't want to step on Viv's fingers going over her head, either.
"No, I'm just the girl spending the gas money she hasn't got so you don't die on some street corner. So what the hell is going on with you?"
"It's work stuff, okay?" He closes his eyes but it's a mistake. He can still see Paula Solis, cringing away from him. He can still hear her talking, calmly telling Viv how she killed the one decent person left in her life for fear of going back to something worse than death. The guys that did that to her, they thought that 'at all costs' was okay. He used to think that didn't happen to normal people; he used to think that a normal human being could find a line and stop, but he's learned better. They've become acclimated, all of them. It starts with a raised voice, then getting up into someone's face. Intimidating a guy a little, just shaking him a bit. Then one day you look back and realise you've lost your anchor and there's no way to go back. Hell, Carlos probably was a decent guy when Elena met him, but bit by bit he worked his way up where to kidnapping and threatening his own family made perfect sense. "I'll pay you back."
"It's not about the money, Marty. It's about living up to what you've led others to believe. Mom was always so proud of you - you would've thought you were her kid. She even said that once, when you were over and I wanted to go to the movies and no one would take me: 'go ask your brother.' You don't get to do that, and then just run away."
"Why not?" He looks away, out the window, his voice sad instead of bitter like usual. "Everybody else does."
"You're not everybody else. You're the guy Mom always told us to look up to. You trying to tell me she was wrong about that?"
"You're the one having to drive out and pick me up in the middle of the night. What do you think?" Even as he speaks, he feels like shit. There was nothing in her voice, but the reflection in the window looks like it's crying, and when he looks over to confirm, her cheeks are definitely wet. Sure, it's raining out, now, but the windows are closed tight. Great. First he terrifies an already broken girl, and now he's made another one cry. When did this happen? When did he become this brittle, broken shell with edges that cut deeply anyone who gets too close? Even worse, how come he saw none of this happening? How could he not notice that Jack was out of control? How, in God's name could he have thought that - even for the briefest fraction of a second - there might be some validity to Jack's point of view, if it could save a life? He's still got his anchor, but it's not attached to anything; it's just a weight to drag him down.
She doesn't answer; the only sounds breaking the silence are the cars passing in the other lanes, the hiss of water under their own tires and the squeak-thump of a broken wiper-blade. At any other time, the sound would be annoying, but now it seems only suitable. Nothing around here works right, not even the car. He wonders what its story is, what it would say if it had to stand up and say, "Hello, my name is Ford T. and…"
Goddamn, he hates himself. Can't he get through one simple day in his entire life without screwing something up, pissing somebody off or letting them down? It shouldn't be that hard. Other people manage it. He puts the coffee cup back and turns away, unable to make himself think of anything to say that might fix this. Even if he tries, he's only going to make it worse. He's good at making things worse, but that's not exactly a resume-ready talent.
"Even if it's work-stuff, you still owe me some explanation. Okay, maybe not details that are protected by 'national security'," she risks an accident by pulling her hands from the wheel to make fingerquotes around the words, "but a little more than the 'whatever'," this time it's a handwave, "bullshit you're giving me. I mean, look at you. It's October and you're in shorts. You could die dressed like that. You think I want to go to another funeral?"
"No," he mumbles. At her age it should be all-night parties, not rescue-parties.
"Then why? What's so godsdamn horrible that it's not only keeping you up at night, but making you act like a moron? Or like…" her voice catches, "like someone who's trying to kill himself. Is that what you're doing? "
Is it? He's not sure. He's certainly not going to tell her that, though. He's too worn out to bring himself to lie, however, so he simply doesn't answer.
"Marty…"
It's less the semi-threatening tone, and more the name he hasn't used since he was a kid. "It's Martin, now." He's not sure why he says it, but the effect is immediate. Her breathing trembles ever so slightly as her teeth grind together and the fingers that were a second ago willing to fly through the air now grip the steering wheel almost too tightly. Shit. First he makes her cry, and now he tells her that she's not even family. "Look, I didn't mean…"
"No, Martin, I think you've made yourself perfectly clear." The chilly temperatures outside seem tropical when compared to the current climate of the car.
"No, I don't think I have." He combats her iciness with heat. "I fucked that up, okay? That's what I do, and I'm trying not to get you caught up in it. You've got enough problems."
"So? Isn't that what family is for? To share around the problems so everybody is fucked up, but maybe a little bit less? Or even just be there to hug or curl up with on the couch watching movies and ready to cover your eyes during all the scary and/or sexy parts?"
"You hated that," he tells her.
"Not really, because it meant I got to watch all the good movies, not just the ones Mom and Dad thought were good for me. It was like you trusted me to be a grown-up, at least mostly, anyway."
"Well, this isn't a movie you want to watch." He wishes he could quit seeing it. Instead, it's burned itself into a loop that plays across the backs of his eyelids.
"You know, Jamie and Dad didn't want to call you."
The non sequitur would be frustrating if he was talking to anyone else, but from Alison it's conversation as usual. He's learned how to sort things out and make the connections that aren't stated. "When your mom…"
"Yeah. They just figured she'd come back, you know? They wanted to sit around wringing their hands and just… but I knew you'd help." She stops. "I'm sorry we acted like shit."
"Hey, she was your mom." He knows she's referring to events at the hospital, when it was 'family only' with visiting rights and somehow he got shunted to the side.
"Yeah, but she woke up and asked about you. 'Where's Marty?' She was dying and she was worried about you. Now I see why."
"I'm not the guy you grew up with," he says, honestly. The cousin she knew wasn't a broken-down drug-addict with all the moral fibre of a starving rat. The person she remembers was mortally wounded by someone else's death, tortured by the belief that comfort meant salvation and finally finished off not on a deserted street, but months later when his soul became possessed by a need greater than that for life itself. Simply, Bonnie struck him down and his own weakness finished him off.
"No, you just always pretended not to be the guy you are. That's why Mom was so scared, wasn't it? She knew that you're completely incapable of looking after yourself, didn't she?"
"Excuse me, but I've been looking after myself for almost my entire life. In case you've forgotten, I've been supporting myself since I was seventeen, so don't tell me…" Anger returns at her attack. It's all he can do not to point out that she's still living at home at an age where he not only busted his ass at school, but was holding down a job to cover the rent.
"Oh, that's what you call it when you get other people to feed you? Supporting yourself?" Alison's tone turns nasty.
"What?" He didn't think she knew about that, because he didn't think Bonnie really knew how serious things were. He tried not to make too big a deal over her 'care packages' that she sent like most college students got from their parents, so she wouldn't know that more than just sometimes it was the only food he had to eat. He didn't want her feeling sorry for him and felt guilty that she assumed even that small responsibility of supplying him with gifts, something his parents never offered.
"You really thought she was going to let you starve? Just because you were too stubborn and stupid to ask didn't mean she couldn't figure it out. You'd be dead if it wasn't for Mom, and you're doing it again. You haven't got an ounce of common sense, let alone survival instinct."
"You know nothing about my survival instinct." He wouldn't have made it this far in life without one. Striking out on his own was about survival. Between his father's plans and his mother's delusions, he had to get out, one way or another. How is he supposed to tell her that death really was an option?
"Yeah… that's why I'm here… because you're so good at wanting to stay alive that you went running in the middle of the night, in October, in shorts, because of the health benefits."
"It isn't your problem."
"Hello! I had to drive out at three in the morning to rescue you from a street corner. That definitely makes it my problem. You are fam-i-ly." She enunciates every syllable, as though it's simply a language comprehension problem. "But you're right, you're not the cousin I grew up with, because I distinctly remember looking up to him as being smarter than me."
"Maybe that's a good reason to forget about it, then." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, pulling the blanket a little tighter around him and burying his nose in his coffee cup, pretending to drink.
"Except I can't, because my mother taught me to be kind to idiots." Alison makes a face. 'Kind' isn't the word for it.
"I'm serious, Al, this isn't something you want to deal with." You'd think she'd clue in, due to his reluctance to deal with it.
"There are a lot of things I don't want to deal with. Do you think I wanted to deal with my family falling apart? Do you think I wanted to deal with a call where I barely got to say 'Hello' before I hear 'Oh my God, Marty's been shot!'? Do you think I wanted to get a phone-call in the middle of the night from some freak asking for my mother, when he was at the godsdamn funeral and ought to know she's fucking-well dead?"
He finally figures out what's been bugging him about her figure of speech. "When did you become pagan and start using the plural?"
"Don't change the subject, and it was when Jamie got ultra-religious and said Mom's death was part of God's plan and we should just accept it, and learn from it to have more faith in him."
"I didn't expect you to leave the Church." He's more than a little surprised. Alison never had the same difficulty reconciling religion and reality that he did.
"I'm still thinking about it, and we're changing the subject back. You are going to tell me what is going on with you."
"No, I'm not. And I think your mom would be kind of disappointed in you having a crisis of faith over her death." It was one of the few things Bonnie never quite understood as much as she tried to accept it. Every now and then she'd ask him about it, or muse quietly about what happened to the altar-boy she'd once known, and he'd tell her that he just didn't have what it took to believe, anymore. She'd always seem just a little disappointed when he'd turn down invitations to join them at Mass on holidays, and the only time he's ever regretted his decision was in the middle of her funeral service, unable to find the words for even a simple prayer or goodbye. Faith had been important to Bonnie, and he wonders now how she ever managed to reconcile that with helping people die. Last he checked, Thou Shalt Not Kill didn't come with a codicil reading except in limited circumstances such as the preservation of life or elimination of suffering or when warranted by decree of law.
"This coming from you. The guy who didn't go to his own Confirmation because he said the Church conflicted with his beliefs."
"I didn't want to lie to God, okay?" It's a testament to how wound up Paula and the whole thing with Jack has got him that he's willing to discuss this, instead. The only reason Danny knows anything about Martin's religious past is that he asked, probably trying to gauge how his complete-stranger/friend would react to the more spiritual component of the Anonymous program. He stayed deliberately vague, too, just muttering something about being 'raised Catholic' and leaving it at that. He's pretty sure Danny thinks he's just lapsed and will work it out sooner or later. Not a lot of people know the level of thought and effort Martin put into the decision. "You didn't have to deal with what I did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He sighs, not sure how to answer. Bonnie had faith, but his mother believes. "You know your aunt. There's no halfway." Funnily, though his mother fails to find the humour in it, it's one of the few character traits they share. She believes completely and fully, and he refused to commit because he knows he doesn't. There are some aspects that make sense and he can accept, but some isn't enough, not when it comes to God. He's not an atheist, not even close. God he believes in. It's all the rules man has come up with for Him that Martin has trouble with.
"That's an excuse?" Alison shakes her head. "When have you ever used your mom as a role model?"
"See? You don't understand."
"That isn't what put you out on a street corner in the middle of the night." Apparently Alison wasn't as distracted as he thought.
"Oh, yeah?" He's not entirely sure it's a bluff. Maybe if he had a way of fooling himself into thinking there was some great plan for even greater good behind everything, he wouldn't have needed to go seeking oblivion. He's not like Danny. Danny has two faiths he can draw on, but Martin can't fully believe in the recovery movement, either. It's too… social for his tastes. It's not that he wants to be alone, but prefers the simple comfort of just having someone else there. He doesn't like to talk about his problems, and despite the rules and nature of the program, can't quite bring himself to believe that a roomful of addicts can be trusted. He knows damn well he can't be trusted.
"You phoned a dead woman." Alison seems completely unwilling to let that part go. "I don't think there's been a louder cry for help in the history of cry-for-helpdom."
"No, I phoned a familiar number." He wasn't sure at the time exactly which one it was, so that counts in his favour, right?
"And tried talking to a dead woman! You can't get out of it, Marty, Martin, or whomever the hell you want to be. Should I make it Agent Fitzgerald? Would that be formal enough for you?"
"Will you get off that? I said I was sorry!" His coffee slops over the top of the cup as his hand develops a sudden case of the rage-induced shakes. "I'm at the end of a very long and very bad day, and it's become an automatic reflex to correct people. Most of the people who call me that don't mean it in a friendly way, alright?"
"Well, I'm not them. I'm the cousin who's called you that her entire life, okay? Who's giving up her sleep, just to rescue you from your nightmares when it ought to be the other way around. I think I deserve a little more than reflex."
"And for the hundredth time, I am sorry. Compared to what some people go through in this world, that is really not a hell of a lot to bear." He feels tears pricking at his eyes, and blinks hard in an attempt to hold them back.
"Says Mr. Touchy."
"You haven't got a fucking clue." He's done playing nice, now. He never realised she was such a self-centred little bitch, before.
"Well enlighten me, then."
"Try going through so much hell that you'll kill the one decent person you know, just to avoid even the threat of going back. Try being so scared that hitting someone in the back of the head feels like self-defence." He doesn't mean to say it, but he can't help himself anymore.
"Is that it?" Her voice is softer and calmer, and he can't believe he actually fell for the trap. "Did you see that?"
"Yes. No. I don't… stop asking me about it."
"I want to know, Marty. Not because I'm some… accident tourist or something, but because you're family and I care about you. Okay? I don't want to get another phone call telling me I'd better hurry because you might be dead when I get there. I don't want to have to lie to nurses and tell them I'm your sister just to get visitation rights. And I really don't need the stress of one of your colleagues showing up at the door asking if I'd seen or heard from you recently." She falls silent for a moment, and when she speaks again he can barely hear her. "And if they do, I'd like to be able to say 'yes.'"
"I'm sorry." He sighs, closing his eyes as he realises what she means. "I really should do a better job of that. After all, your mom died, not you."
"Or you. It'd just be nice to talk sometimes without someone's life having to be at risk. You know, just sit down, have coffee or talk on the phone like normal people? I know for us that's a stretch, but… sometimes it's nice just to talk to someone. Someone you don't have to explain twenty years of history to, because they already know it… you know?"
He nods slowly. He does know. That's one of the troubles with talking to a shrink or a friend or even in a meeting… there are so many things that have to be rehashed and laid out, things that don't make sense or sound important in exposition, but mean everything if you were there.
At the same time, it's hard to do that when he doesn't see an adult in the next seat, but a sulking ten-year-old grounded for beating up boys, or a sick six-year-old, sniffling her way through a germy hug, the worst problem in her life the fact that her tummy hurts. Even though, intellectually, he knows it's too late, he still wants that to be the worst thing she can imagine. He doesn't want her to worry about his drug problem, his sleeping problems, his work problems and his lack of social life. Big brothers are supposed to protect little sisters, not unload all their issues on to them. Yet, if this conversation is any clue, he's not going to get away with simply playing sympathetic listener. Alison is ten times more stubborn than he is. Worse, she's liable to ask his father if she really gets worried. What's going on with Marty? Then Dad will wonder, and he'll really be in for it then. It's one thing to have his own doubts about Jack. It's quite another to instil them in someone who already doesn't like the guy and has the power to do something about it.
"Except, you don't mean that." Alison sees right through him. It really is uncanny how much like her mother she is. Bonnie used to be the only person who could always catch him out in a lie. Even Dad was easily fooled, most of the time. Never Bonnie, though. In a weird way, it's almost comforting. At least there's still someone who can keep him under a bit of control. Someone who might stop him before he decides to take that one tiny step that takes him over the line between human and monster.
"Talking's just not my strong point." Even that has elements of a lie, here. If there was one person he could always talk to, it was Bonnie. She always had time to listen to him, which is why he still hates himself for not doing the same for her. She'd wanted to talk, wanted to tell him that things weren't all right and he'd cut her off before she could even get started. He tries to blink back the tears welling up and doesn't succeed. He wants to tell her he's sorry, but he can't. He didn't quite manage to say it, instead praying for a miracle he didn't believe in.
"Mom said that, once. You were bugging me, and I told her to tell you to shut up, and she said she was quite happy to hear you talk. She said that it was when you stopped talking we had to worry about you." Alison shakes her head. "She was always telling us how to look after you. I thought it was weird, sometimes… but she just said that everything's not like it seems." She pauses, thoughtfully. "She said you were very good at seeming."
"Your mom worried too much." He feels a stab of guilt at the words. Bonnie never played the 'if you can't say anything nice' card on him, mostly out of her fear that he would say nothing at all, but it doesn't stop him from thinking he should have bit his tongue.
"No, she didn't, because Dad is lost without her, and you're no better. I mean, look at you. You're not even Catholic and you're trying to do penance… and it's for somebody else! You didn't hurt anybody, did you?"
"I scared the crap out of her."
"Well, then, she was definitely screwed up before then. But you don't just feel sorry for her, you're acting like you're personally responsible. What's next… you killed Mom because you didn't want to see her suffer?"
"I…" How is he supposed to answer that? Alison knows damn well how her mother died.
"The idea's not new to me … or do you forget what we found out she was up to? What I'm saying is that you're not responsible for other people. Shit happens. If the world was fair, Mom wouldn't have gotten cancer and Dad wouldn't have gotten the way he's gotten and you wouldn't have gotten shot and that girl you're talking about would never have ended up in a state where you could freak her out. It's not fair. It just isn't. And you are a lot of things, Marty, but you sure as hell are not God. Stop trying to be."
Once again Danny's words echo in his head, the man washing his hands of Jack's decision. "Somebody needs to. Otherwise it comes down to 'just following orders' and 'I didn't do it' being excuses to let things happen."
"Fine. That's great… but when they've already happened, you can't keep blaming yourself for it. It's one thing to stand and watch and pretend you can't see and it's another to be somewhere else when it happens and only find out later." She shakes her head. "Grow up, Marty. Only two year olds believe everything in the world is their fault."
"I just wish I could have done something. I wish… I just want things to be the way they were."
"I'm sorry, but I am not giving up my driver's license just to satisfy your need to live in the past. The way they 'were', I had to rely on other people to get places, and I can only imagine trying to convince someone else to do this."
"I'm just…" The sleep that eluded him earlier is now sneaking back to take over his brain. He can't think clearly anymore. He vaguely wonders if she put anything in his coffee. "Did you spike this?"
"Yeah… my mom was a nurse, so I clearly don't know any better than to give an addict drugs." She rolls her eyes at his startlement. "Please. Cut me some slack. Not only did you only come over that one time to visit, but you rifled the medicine cabinet. Were you hoping that even after two years we hadn't got around to throwing out all Mom's old pills? You wouldn't believe how pissed Jamie got when I mentioned it to her, 'cause I was worried. She figured the only reason you did come was to score."
He closes his eyes, not wanting to admit how close Jamie was to being right. "And you?"
"I like to think it wasn't just a fake-out. I mean, there've been lots of other times when you've gone for ages without showing up, and then Mom would remind you… maybe I just want to believe it's your really bad social skills that are the problem."
"That's part of it… but…"
"But you were also getting desperate, right? 'Cause the doctors only prescribe for so long before they cut you off on the grounds that you might get hooked. I remember that. I remember being told how Mom had to be in pain at the end, because they couldn't give her anything more than they had. She was dying and they worried about addiction. And you've always been paranoid. Someone might have seen you at a street-dealer, so that would've been absolute last resort, right?"
"How do you know so much?" It damn well better not be personal experience or… what? He can hardly claim higher moral ground, there. "And what were you doing? Spying on me in the bathroom? Because that would be sick, Al… even in the strange reality you live in."
"No… but you organised things when you were finished. You're the only person in the family who lines up the bottles."
He doesn't have an answer for that, mostly because he didn't realise he'd done it. "Oh." He didn't do that with Gina Hill's cabinet when he stole hers, but he was in more of a hurry, then, not to mention more desperate, and the bottle had practically been in plain sight, taunting him. Looking for Bonnie's had been more along the lines of insurance, just in case he couldn't charm another prescription out of an unsympathetic MD. By the time he got to Gina's place he knew he couldn't.
"And that's another thing why I'm not talking to Jamie. How is what happened to you any different than what happened to Mom? If she'd lived and it'd happened to her… these things happen, right? It's not like you just decided to start taking drugs one day, or did them at a party or because everyone else was. You didn't get a say in the matter… you were on them from before you even woke up. Of course since Ron has always hated your guts, it's easy for her to side with him. Her oh-so-perfect husband who cheated on her when she was pregnant."
"Well, if it's any consolation, I could never stand Ron." This is why he stays as much out of 'family' as possible. No matter what the family, there's always too much melodrama.
"But Jamie loves him, so what are we supposed to do? But the point is, I know these things about you, Marty. You're my quasi-big-brother, and that's what little sisters do. I used to always read Jamie's diary… why do you think I asked you to teach me how to pick locks?" She closes her eyes briefly, and it's all he can do not to scream that she's driving and will she please watch the road. She's worse than Sam, and he didn't think that was possible. "Let's put it this way. When you found out about Mom and what she… did… did you hate her? My mom murdered people."
"She helped them do it for themselves. It's…"
"Still something that boils down to conspiracy. What I'm saying is that there aren't a lot of deep, dark secrets that are deeper or darker than that. There isn't much you can say that's going to stack up. You can trust me. Once you learn to deal with the fact that your mother killed people, you know you can handle anything."
"That doesn't mean I want you to." Still, he feels a measure of certainty creeping back. All his life there was only one person he didn't want to disappoint, ever. Everything he's done was either with the hope of living up to Bonnie's expectation or with the relief that she wasn't around to see him fail. He realises, now, that Alison has that same faith - steady, unwavering and full of forgiveness. Unconditional love, something he never found with his own mother and something that took him forever to recognise.
"And maybe I don't want to look the other way and pretend I couldn't see."
He nods. "Fair enough, I guess." Then he shakes his head. "You've grown up… and I didn't see any of it."
"Maybe that'll teach you to pay attention." She finally pulls into the driveway, parking just outside the garage doors. "Bed's made… nobody's slept there in ages, though. I think you were the last, when we wouldn't let you drive home after the funeral, cause… well, you couldn't drive." She's out of the car almost before she's finished talking.
"That's fine." He reluctantly abandons the warmth of the car and his blanket for the outside, hurrying to catch up to her and grab her in a one-armed hug. "Thanks."
"You're an idiot." The grey light of pre-dawn is just starting to appear, providing just enough light for Alison to fit the key into the front door without a lot of fumbling. "But we'll keep you anyway."
He hugs her again, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm glad." He can't help but laugh as she pushes him towards the first-floor bedroom and heads for the stairs. Now that he thinks about it, in defiance of all logic, this was where he was running all along. Safe harbour. Home.