(no subject)
Title: The Last Time
Author: Melanie-Anne
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You know what you're doing is wrong for all sorts of reasons. [SBR]
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
A/N: For kosmickway, for the Profiler Secret Santa exchange. Merry Christmas!
A/N2: I tried to write something happy and Christmassy, but it seems all I can do lately is angsty!Sam. Ah, well. Begins before Tom's death, ends with Reunion.
You know what you're doing is wrong for all sorts of reasons. He's married, you're engaged, you're his student - the list is endless. Yet you can't help it. You're drawn to him almost despite yourself.
Besides, you tell yourself, it's not as if you planned this. All you want is to give him a Christmas card and thank him for being so helpful. (You know that's not true - you just want an excuse to see him one more time.)
Your hand shakes as you knock on his office door. He doesn't seem surprised to see you. His hand brushes yours as you pass him the card, and you know that you're lost.
It isn't romantic or gentle or beautiful, or anything you fantasized it would be. His hands are rough and you can taste the scotch on his breath. Something digs into your back and you're petrified the door will burst open, but you don't want him to stop.
And then it's over and he's mumbling apologies against your mouth, and you tell him it's okay. He holds you close for a long time afterwards, and although the sweat is drying on your skin and something is still digging into your spine, you can't bring yourself to move.
When the phone rings, you want to cry. He doesn't release you as he reaches across the desk and barks a gruff, "Malone."
You're close enough to hear the other side of the conversation. A murder. South Carolina.
He hangs up, then pulls you closer. "I have to go."
You nod, even as tears sting your eyes. You don't understand why you're so upset; you're not in love with him. This means nothing. It will never happen again.
He steps back and you shiver at the sudden loss of warmth. His smile is sad as he cups your cheek in his hand and gives you one last kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Sam."
* * *
Widow. The word echoes in your head, accompanied by a mocking laugh. You close your eyes as if that will make the pain disappear.
Your wedding ring feels surprisingly foreign. In your clenched fist is Tom's ring; the coroner gave it to you after the autopsy.
Tom's autopsy. Tom. Dead. Tom is dead.
Suddenly you can't breathe. You bend forward, clutching your stomach. You never knew grief could be a physical pain.
Someone takes your shoulders and steers you to the couch. You don't need to open your eyes to know who it is - you've never forgotten the way Bailey Malone smells.
"Angel let me in," he says.
You don't - can't - speak.
He rubs your back, and the tenderness almost breaks you. "I'm sorry, Sam. We'll get him. I promise."
You curl into him, accepting the comfort, wanting only to be held. In this moment, you believe him.
* * *
You should never come back. You never thought working with him would be so hard. Because you're afraid to let him into your heart again (afraid what it will mean if Jack ever found out) you hide behind Tom's ghost and pretend you're just his friend.
But you should have known you couldn't hide forever.
It's late. The case is difficult. Everyone's tense. You're in New Orleans and the heat is an almost physical presence. He knocks on your door and begins and apology about an outburst earlier in the day.
Too late, you realize you're in your pajamas, which, due to the heat, are nothing more than your panties and a T-shirt. The T-shirt is sticking to your skin and the humidity has curled the wisps of hair framing your face.
"Oh, hell," Bailey says, stepping into the room.
The door latches shut behind him and you're in his arms. It is as desperate as the first time, all those years ago, but there's something different now. Something that wasn't there the first time.
You don't stop to analyze what it is. He's kissing you and nothing else matters.
He slips out just before dawn. You understand why, but that doesn't mean you have to like it.
You tell yourself it isn't going to happen again.
* * *
He's not dead! Jack lied!
You don't care who sees you; you throw yourself into his arms and cling to him. He's alive and you're alive. Jack's still out there, but you'll worry about him later.
He takes you home and watches as you first greet Angel, then Chloe. Chloe's distance hurts, and he holds you as you cry into his chest. It's only then that you realize he's injured.
"I'm okay," he says.
"I'm sorry. This is my fault-"
He presses his fingers to your lips. "No, it's not. Jack did this, not you."
"He did it because of me. I'm still to blame."
"No, you're not."
You know better than to argue with him.
"Sam, I lo-"
You kiss him before he can say it. You don't want to hear it, because then you'll have to admit you're in love with him too. And that will make it hurt even more when you leave.
So you let your body say what your mouth can't. *I love you. I love you. I love you.* Over and over again. Afterwards, when he's asleep, you let yourself cry. This really is the last time, and the knowledge hurts somewhere so deep inside, that you realize you've always loved him.
You'll wait until Jack is caught before you leave.
You only hope Bailey can forgive you.
Author: Melanie-Anne
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You know what you're doing is wrong for all sorts of reasons. [SBR]
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
A/N: For kosmickway, for the Profiler Secret Santa exchange. Merry Christmas!
A/N2: I tried to write something happy and Christmassy, but it seems all I can do lately is angsty!Sam. Ah, well. Begins before Tom's death, ends with Reunion.
You know what you're doing is wrong for all sorts of reasons. He's married, you're engaged, you're his student - the list is endless. Yet you can't help it. You're drawn to him almost despite yourself.
Besides, you tell yourself, it's not as if you planned this. All you want is to give him a Christmas card and thank him for being so helpful. (You know that's not true - you just want an excuse to see him one more time.)
Your hand shakes as you knock on his office door. He doesn't seem surprised to see you. His hand brushes yours as you pass him the card, and you know that you're lost.
It isn't romantic or gentle or beautiful, or anything you fantasized it would be. His hands are rough and you can taste the scotch on his breath. Something digs into your back and you're petrified the door will burst open, but you don't want him to stop.
And then it's over and he's mumbling apologies against your mouth, and you tell him it's okay. He holds you close for a long time afterwards, and although the sweat is drying on your skin and something is still digging into your spine, you can't bring yourself to move.
When the phone rings, you want to cry. He doesn't release you as he reaches across the desk and barks a gruff, "Malone."
You're close enough to hear the other side of the conversation. A murder. South Carolina.
He hangs up, then pulls you closer. "I have to go."
You nod, even as tears sting your eyes. You don't understand why you're so upset; you're not in love with him. This means nothing. It will never happen again.
He steps back and you shiver at the sudden loss of warmth. His smile is sad as he cups your cheek in his hand and gives you one last kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Sam."
* * *
Widow. The word echoes in your head, accompanied by a mocking laugh. You close your eyes as if that will make the pain disappear.
Your wedding ring feels surprisingly foreign. In your clenched fist is Tom's ring; the coroner gave it to you after the autopsy.
Tom's autopsy. Tom. Dead. Tom is dead.
Suddenly you can't breathe. You bend forward, clutching your stomach. You never knew grief could be a physical pain.
Someone takes your shoulders and steers you to the couch. You don't need to open your eyes to know who it is - you've never forgotten the way Bailey Malone smells.
"Angel let me in," he says.
You don't - can't - speak.
He rubs your back, and the tenderness almost breaks you. "I'm sorry, Sam. We'll get him. I promise."
You curl into him, accepting the comfort, wanting only to be held. In this moment, you believe him.
* * *
You should never come back. You never thought working with him would be so hard. Because you're afraid to let him into your heart again (afraid what it will mean if Jack ever found out) you hide behind Tom's ghost and pretend you're just his friend.
But you should have known you couldn't hide forever.
It's late. The case is difficult. Everyone's tense. You're in New Orleans and the heat is an almost physical presence. He knocks on your door and begins and apology about an outburst earlier in the day.
Too late, you realize you're in your pajamas, which, due to the heat, are nothing more than your panties and a T-shirt. The T-shirt is sticking to your skin and the humidity has curled the wisps of hair framing your face.
"Oh, hell," Bailey says, stepping into the room.
The door latches shut behind him and you're in his arms. It is as desperate as the first time, all those years ago, but there's something different now. Something that wasn't there the first time.
You don't stop to analyze what it is. He's kissing you and nothing else matters.
He slips out just before dawn. You understand why, but that doesn't mean you have to like it.
You tell yourself it isn't going to happen again.
* * *
He's not dead! Jack lied!
You don't care who sees you; you throw yourself into his arms and cling to him. He's alive and you're alive. Jack's still out there, but you'll worry about him later.
He takes you home and watches as you first greet Angel, then Chloe. Chloe's distance hurts, and he holds you as you cry into his chest. It's only then that you realize he's injured.
"I'm okay," he says.
"I'm sorry. This is my fault-"
He presses his fingers to your lips. "No, it's not. Jack did this, not you."
"He did it because of me. I'm still to blame."
"No, you're not."
You know better than to argue with him.
"Sam, I lo-"
You kiss him before he can say it. You don't want to hear it, because then you'll have to admit you're in love with him too. And that will make it hurt even more when you leave.
So you let your body say what your mouth can't. *I love you. I love you. I love you.* Over and over again. Afterwards, when he's asleep, you let yourself cry. This really is the last time, and the knowledge hurts somewhere so deep inside, that you realize you've always loved him.
You'll wait until Jack is caught before you leave.
You only hope Bailey can forgive you.