Retrospect 1/7 (Without a Trace)
Retrospect
By iamstealthyone
Summary: A mishap at work makes Martin reflect on past, present and future. This story is set in late season three, after “Off the Tracks.” Therefore, Martin has recently broken up with Sam, and Viv is out on medical leave because of her heart condition.
Characters: Mainly Martin, with hefty Danny doses and appearances from Jack, Sam and Martin’s family.
Rating: PG-13 (Genfic). A bit of cussing, a bit of gore. Nothing too bad, though.
Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Not making money off of them.
“Technical” notes: Asterisk marks (*) denote a character’s internal monologue.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to Rhiannon for her beta-reading services. She made some great observations and suggestions that really enhanced this story. Thanks, Rhiannon!
**
Retrospect
1/7
If only every case went this smoothly.
It had taken less than eight hours to track down Becky Spenser, an 11-year-old girl who’d disappeared while walking to school. The frantic mother had correctly accused her ex-husband as the culprit, and Special Agents Martin Fitzgerald, Danny Taylor and Samantha Spade had found Hank Spenser at his sister’s recently purchased Manhattan home. Peeking out from behind a lacey white curtain on the locked front door, the unarmed man had explained that he’d been frustrated with his limited visitation rights. He’d taken Becky because he was going to skip town with her, but he’d spent the past several hours wrestling with his conscience. It hadn’t taken much effort to convince the man to release his daughter and surrender.
As the local police cuffed Hank and guided him into a patrol car, Martin watched Sam’s vehicle pull into traffic. She was taking Becky back to the office to reunite mother and child.
“Wish they were all this easy,” Martin mused, eyeing the grey afternoon sky as he and Danny walked down the driveway toward their government-issued car. It had rained hard an hour ago, leaving a chill in the air that made him wish he’d brought his trench coat.
Danny cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “If they were all this easy, the cops would handle everything themselves, and we’d be out of a job. Then what’d we do?”
Nearing the end of the rain-slicked driveway, Martin chuckled. “Sell shoes?”
It was an old joke between them, one that had originated when OPR had investigated the team not long after the Anwar Samir case. Things had been far different then. He’d been an overeager rookie, mistake-prone in his quest to right the wrongs of the world. During that first year with the Missing Persons Unit, he and Danny had spent a fair amount of time butting heads.
He and Sam had fared better, although he’d certainly never suspected just how good things would eventually get between them.
Or how quickly they’d go downhill.
Danny fished his keys out of his pants pocket. “Wanna stop for some coffee on the way back in?”
“Sure. Let’s -- ”
Before Martin could finish the sentence he slipped, and his feet flew out from under him. He had no time to brace himself as he went backward, hitting the driveway hard. While the impact knocked the wind out of him, he barely noticed in the wake of the sharp agony that erupted in his skull as his head smacked against concrete. He stared dazedly up at the clouds, and then at Danny’s worried face leaning over him.
“Martin? You okay?”
Before he could answer, his brain folded in on itself, and a familiar, quiet darkness settled over him.
**
Two-and-a-half years earlier …
The first time he woke up, it felt as though someone was bludgeoning his head with a sledgehammer. Dragging his eyes open, he tried to ascertain his whereabouts, but the roaring in his ears and blurry images surrounding him were of no help. He could deduce only that he lay face down on something hard. A floor, maybe? A man softly called his name from somewhere far away, but he couldn’t stay conscious long enough to respond.
The second time he came to, he lay on his back, that damned sledgehammer continuing its assault. Eyeing the ceiling of wherever he was, he noted that his vision seemed sharper, and the roaring in his ears, quieter. A man he didn’t recognize leaned over him and shone a light in his eyes, and suddenly an ice pick had joined the sledgehammer, prompting a sharp gasp and wiping everything out in a hurtful, blinding flash.
The third time he regained consciousness, he again found himself lying on his back, more upright than before, his head turned to the left. While the edges of his vision were fuzzy, he could nonetheless identify his immediate surroundings as the inside of an ambulance.
Which meant that the sadist probing at the back of his head must be a paramedic.
Frowning, he tried to remember what had happened. How he’d wound up here. Concentrating proved difficult, though, what with the buzzing in his ears and the pain beating on his skull. It felt like someone was using his brain for batting practice.
He shifted left to escape the pounding, but a gentle hand on his right shoulder pressed him back in place.
“Just stay still,” the paramedic ordered from behind him, speaking entirely too loud, as far as he was concerned. “You took a bad blow to the back of your head. Looks like you’ve got a concussion, and you might need some stitches. We’re taking you to the hospital in a few minutes.”
The hospital? A concussion? What --
Martin hissed as the paramedic pressed on a particularly sensitive spot on the back of his head, about an inch from his right ear. Something tickled his nose, and he reached up, touching smooth plastic tubing. A nasal cannula.
“Can you tell me your name?” the paramedic asked.
“Martin Fitzgerald,” he replied softly, in deference to his horrendous headache. Using his hands, he carefully eased himself more upright, turning his head to stare past the open ambulance doors. Police officers and bystanders stood a few yards away, attention trained on an apartment building.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Agent Fitzgerald?”
Pausing, he tried to wrap his brain around that ridiculously simple and yet staggeringly difficult question. The date … What day was it? Bits of information came to him and he spoke hesitantly, struggling to piece everything together. “Umm … September … 2002 … ” He blew out a sigh and closed his eyes, wincing. It didn’t seem fair, asking a man with a concussion to figure out what day it was.
Damn, but his head hurt.
Before the paramedic could push the issue, Special Agent Jack Malone stepped in front of the ambulance, looking utterly disgusted and gripping a Styrofoam cup in his hand. As Martin stared at the furious man before him, things started clicking into place.
He’d gone to Bart’s apartment, spotted Maggie’s backpack on the floor, and realized that the man was responsible for her disappearance. And then … and then things went blank, as though he’d been at a movie theater and someone had turned the projector off in the middle of an important scene.
Given the raging pain in his head, though, Bart had obviously hit him with something. Hard. Hard enough to knock him out. Hard enough to require an ambulance to come haul his sorry ass to the hospital.
Martin stifled a groan as his stomach somersaulted. God, he’d screwed up. On his first case, he’d walked right into the perp’s lair and been coldcocked. What would his father say? The FBI’s deputy director would be deeply disappointed, no doubt.
As he silently cursed his ineptness, Danny appeared and spared him a brief glance before turning to address their boss.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“So stupid,” Jack muttered.
Martin swallowed hard at the anger in the older man’s voice. Did Jack think what he’d done was stupid, or that he was stupid?
Did it matter? Either way, he’d pissed his boss off. Failed to save the girl --
Oh, God. What about Maggie? Had they found her? Was she alive?
“Jack … ” he started, voice weak from pain. “Maggie going to be all right?”
“Yeah, no thanks to you,” the older man seethed, eyes flashing. “You almost got her killed. You never should have gone in there alone.”
Martin was silent as the paramedic continued working on his head. What could he say? Jack was right. Danny had told him to stay put, but he’d gone off on his own anyway.
“Take him to the hospital,” Jack ordered Danny. “Make sure he gets his head checked.”
“Yes, sir,” the younger man replied, hoisting himself up into the ambulance and settling onto a bench.
As if on cue, the paramedic patted Martin’s shoulder and informed him the bleeding had stopped, and they were ready to transport him to the hospital. The ambulance doors closed, and he flinched as the sound slammed against his brittle skull. Leaning back, he pressed his lips tightly together as the wound contacted with the gurney’s thin mattress. Feeling Danny’s eyes on him, he carefully tilted his head toward the other man, who sat with his arms crossed, frowning.
“Don’t,” Martin murmured, grimacing as the engine turned over and the resulting sound and vibrations jarred his senses.
“Don’t what?”
“I know I screwed up, all right? Just … leave it. Please.”
Danny snorted and shook his head. “We’re gonna talk about this, Fitzgerald. I’ll back off for now, but we’re definitely gonna talk.”
“Fine,” Martin sighed, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his churning stomach, pounding head and wounded pride.
**
Part Two
By iamstealthyone
Summary: A mishap at work makes Martin reflect on past, present and future. This story is set in late season three, after “Off the Tracks.” Therefore, Martin has recently broken up with Sam, and Viv is out on medical leave because of her heart condition.
Characters: Mainly Martin, with hefty Danny doses and appearances from Jack, Sam and Martin’s family.
Rating: PG-13 (Genfic). A bit of cussing, a bit of gore. Nothing too bad, though.
Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Not making money off of them.
“Technical” notes: Asterisk marks (*) denote a character’s internal monologue.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to Rhiannon for her beta-reading services. She made some great observations and suggestions that really enhanced this story. Thanks, Rhiannon!
**
Retrospect
1/7
If only every case went this smoothly.
It had taken less than eight hours to track down Becky Spenser, an 11-year-old girl who’d disappeared while walking to school. The frantic mother had correctly accused her ex-husband as the culprit, and Special Agents Martin Fitzgerald, Danny Taylor and Samantha Spade had found Hank Spenser at his sister’s recently purchased Manhattan home. Peeking out from behind a lacey white curtain on the locked front door, the unarmed man had explained that he’d been frustrated with his limited visitation rights. He’d taken Becky because he was going to skip town with her, but he’d spent the past several hours wrestling with his conscience. It hadn’t taken much effort to convince the man to release his daughter and surrender.
As the local police cuffed Hank and guided him into a patrol car, Martin watched Sam’s vehicle pull into traffic. She was taking Becky back to the office to reunite mother and child.
“Wish they were all this easy,” Martin mused, eyeing the grey afternoon sky as he and Danny walked down the driveway toward their government-issued car. It had rained hard an hour ago, leaving a chill in the air that made him wish he’d brought his trench coat.
Danny cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “If they were all this easy, the cops would handle everything themselves, and we’d be out of a job. Then what’d we do?”
Nearing the end of the rain-slicked driveway, Martin chuckled. “Sell shoes?”
It was an old joke between them, one that had originated when OPR had investigated the team not long after the Anwar Samir case. Things had been far different then. He’d been an overeager rookie, mistake-prone in his quest to right the wrongs of the world. During that first year with the Missing Persons Unit, he and Danny had spent a fair amount of time butting heads.
He and Sam had fared better, although he’d certainly never suspected just how good things would eventually get between them.
Or how quickly they’d go downhill.
Danny fished his keys out of his pants pocket. “Wanna stop for some coffee on the way back in?”
“Sure. Let’s -- ”
Before Martin could finish the sentence he slipped, and his feet flew out from under him. He had no time to brace himself as he went backward, hitting the driveway hard. While the impact knocked the wind out of him, he barely noticed in the wake of the sharp agony that erupted in his skull as his head smacked against concrete. He stared dazedly up at the clouds, and then at Danny’s worried face leaning over him.
“Martin? You okay?”
Before he could answer, his brain folded in on itself, and a familiar, quiet darkness settled over him.
**
Two-and-a-half years earlier …
The first time he woke up, it felt as though someone was bludgeoning his head with a sledgehammer. Dragging his eyes open, he tried to ascertain his whereabouts, but the roaring in his ears and blurry images surrounding him were of no help. He could deduce only that he lay face down on something hard. A floor, maybe? A man softly called his name from somewhere far away, but he couldn’t stay conscious long enough to respond.
The second time he came to, he lay on his back, that damned sledgehammer continuing its assault. Eyeing the ceiling of wherever he was, he noted that his vision seemed sharper, and the roaring in his ears, quieter. A man he didn’t recognize leaned over him and shone a light in his eyes, and suddenly an ice pick had joined the sledgehammer, prompting a sharp gasp and wiping everything out in a hurtful, blinding flash.
The third time he regained consciousness, he again found himself lying on his back, more upright than before, his head turned to the left. While the edges of his vision were fuzzy, he could nonetheless identify his immediate surroundings as the inside of an ambulance.
Which meant that the sadist probing at the back of his head must be a paramedic.
Frowning, he tried to remember what had happened. How he’d wound up here. Concentrating proved difficult, though, what with the buzzing in his ears and the pain beating on his skull. It felt like someone was using his brain for batting practice.
He shifted left to escape the pounding, but a gentle hand on his right shoulder pressed him back in place.
“Just stay still,” the paramedic ordered from behind him, speaking entirely too loud, as far as he was concerned. “You took a bad blow to the back of your head. Looks like you’ve got a concussion, and you might need some stitches. We’re taking you to the hospital in a few minutes.”
The hospital? A concussion? What --
Martin hissed as the paramedic pressed on a particularly sensitive spot on the back of his head, about an inch from his right ear. Something tickled his nose, and he reached up, touching smooth plastic tubing. A nasal cannula.
“Can you tell me your name?” the paramedic asked.
“Martin Fitzgerald,” he replied softly, in deference to his horrendous headache. Using his hands, he carefully eased himself more upright, turning his head to stare past the open ambulance doors. Police officers and bystanders stood a few yards away, attention trained on an apartment building.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Agent Fitzgerald?”
Pausing, he tried to wrap his brain around that ridiculously simple and yet staggeringly difficult question. The date … What day was it? Bits of information came to him and he spoke hesitantly, struggling to piece everything together. “Umm … September … 2002 … ” He blew out a sigh and closed his eyes, wincing. It didn’t seem fair, asking a man with a concussion to figure out what day it was.
Damn, but his head hurt.
Before the paramedic could push the issue, Special Agent Jack Malone stepped in front of the ambulance, looking utterly disgusted and gripping a Styrofoam cup in his hand. As Martin stared at the furious man before him, things started clicking into place.
He’d gone to Bart’s apartment, spotted Maggie’s backpack on the floor, and realized that the man was responsible for her disappearance. And then … and then things went blank, as though he’d been at a movie theater and someone had turned the projector off in the middle of an important scene.
Given the raging pain in his head, though, Bart had obviously hit him with something. Hard. Hard enough to knock him out. Hard enough to require an ambulance to come haul his sorry ass to the hospital.
Martin stifled a groan as his stomach somersaulted. God, he’d screwed up. On his first case, he’d walked right into the perp’s lair and been coldcocked. What would his father say? The FBI’s deputy director would be deeply disappointed, no doubt.
As he silently cursed his ineptness, Danny appeared and spared him a brief glance before turning to address their boss.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“So stupid,” Jack muttered.
Martin swallowed hard at the anger in the older man’s voice. Did Jack think what he’d done was stupid, or that he was stupid?
Did it matter? Either way, he’d pissed his boss off. Failed to save the girl --
Oh, God. What about Maggie? Had they found her? Was she alive?
“Jack … ” he started, voice weak from pain. “Maggie going to be all right?”
“Yeah, no thanks to you,” the older man seethed, eyes flashing. “You almost got her killed. You never should have gone in there alone.”
Martin was silent as the paramedic continued working on his head. What could he say? Jack was right. Danny had told him to stay put, but he’d gone off on his own anyway.
“Take him to the hospital,” Jack ordered Danny. “Make sure he gets his head checked.”
“Yes, sir,” the younger man replied, hoisting himself up into the ambulance and settling onto a bench.
As if on cue, the paramedic patted Martin’s shoulder and informed him the bleeding had stopped, and they were ready to transport him to the hospital. The ambulance doors closed, and he flinched as the sound slammed against his brittle skull. Leaning back, he pressed his lips tightly together as the wound contacted with the gurney’s thin mattress. Feeling Danny’s eyes on him, he carefully tilted his head toward the other man, who sat with his arms crossed, frowning.
“Don’t,” Martin murmured, grimacing as the engine turned over and the resulting sound and vibrations jarred his senses.
“Don’t what?”
“I know I screwed up, all right? Just … leave it. Please.”
Danny snorted and shook his head. “We’re gonna talk about this, Fitzgerald. I’ll back off for now, but we’re definitely gonna talk.”
“Fine,” Martin sighed, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his churning stomach, pounding head and wounded pride.
**
Part Two