THE KISS by JIN


+ + + + + + +

Martin had read about kidnapping victims and some of the emotions they went through, but he planned to rewrite the book, once he was free.

If he got free . . .

Being stupid didn’t matter so much anymore, and he was well past the anger phase. Now he just wondered if he’d live through this. And he’d admit to anyone, even Danny, that he was just plain scared.

Not only that, he was a total mess. He’d thrown up on himself and he’d given up holding out for a bathroom. But, unbelievably, he didn’t care that he smelled of piss and vomit; dignity went out the window hours ago.

His voice was gone, too, after hours of screaming that left his throat raw and his bruised chest aching. He’d tried yanking against the pipe, pulling the goddamn metal clean off the wall, if that’s what it took. But it only earned him more pain and more despair.

No one was coming. Whoever had put him there apparently had no intention of ever coming back. And wasn’t that a waste? His parents could set the guy up with a hell of a lot more than a coat and tie.

If they were willing, and that’s when it occurred to him that maybe they weren’t. Maybe this was a hostage situation and Dad wasn’t willing to play along. He could picture his father’s tightly controlled anger; what did Martin get himself into this time? How could he be so careless? Of course we can’t give in to terrorists, no matter whose life is at stake.

His mother would be embarrassed. His disappearance might put a crimp in her social calendar and what would she tell her friends? It was all about appearance. It always had been, and thank God Martin didn’t disappoint her in that way. He always knew how to look good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her, and as he sat there and contemplated his life and possible death, he realized he didn’t particularly care. It wasn’t her face he’d see when he closed his eyes for the last time, and wasn’t that sad?

He missed his aunt, the emotion coming on so suddenly that it overwhelmed him, and he choked back a sob. He would not cry; only Sam had seen him cry and that was only because he was exhausted and stressed out . . . and because Aunt Bonnie was worth his tears. She was the only person in his entire life who loved him unconditionally, and even though she never asked for anything in return, she got his total devotion and his utmost respect. His father called Aunt Bonnie a “flaky housewife”, and his mother barely acknowledged her sister’s existence, except when she was needed to look after her nephew. It didn’t matter to his aunt, though, and it didn’t matter to Martin. They both knew who the truly clueless ones were.

Clueless. Kind of like he’d been with Sam. He felt his chest constrict at just the thought of her, but maybe it was the cold air that had settled in his lungs. The way things were going, he’d have pneumonia next--he’d already been nursing a cold. Sam had made him some kind of horrible tasting tea and made him drink it. She was always doing little things like that for him; maybe he did too much taking and not enough giving.

Pneumonia wouldn’t kill him anyway. Dehydration would, or maybe he’d freeze to death. Either one was supposed to be a relatively peaceful way to go, but this wasn’t at all what he had planned. Served him right--thinking he could plan his life and it would go the way it was supposed to.

He’d never planned on Samantha, either, and he’d fought his feelings for her for a long time. He’d be fighting them still, if she hadn’t made that first offer. Why would she do that if she still wanted Jack? Oh yeah, that’s right . . . she thought Jack was taken.

Of course, Jack wasn’t taken any longer and he wanted Sam, too, but Martin’s head really hurt too badly to think about that right now. Wasn’t important . . . if these were his last few hours on earth, he wasn’t going to spend them thinking about Jack.

He laid his head back and closed his eyes, and tried to remember the prayers his aunt had taught him. But whether he wanted to think of Jack or not, he did. What would he be doing right now? Would he be tearing the city inside out looking for him?

Or not? Maybe Jack didn’t want to find him. Maybe Martin was competition and oh, God . . . maybe he’d told them some lie like he was taking a few days off and then nobody, nobody would even be trying to find him.

No. That was ridiculous. He must be getting delirious to even think something like that. Not Jack’s style, no matter what their differences were. Of course, their differences weren’t the problem right now--their similarities were. Both of them in love with the same woman. Right out of some stupid Hollywood movie.

Wait a minute . . . in love? Was he in love with Sam?

He groaned. Don’t go there, don’t think about that. Think about how good Jack and Samantha and Viv and Danny are at finding people. Think about how great it will feel to move and to be warm and to drink a gallon of water.

No. Nix the water part. Do not think about water.

He’d never, ever take a drop of water for granted again. Or a blanket or food or just the ability to move his God damn arms.

Or a voice.

He was used to being alone. His parents were gone more than they were home, and even when they were in the same room, they weren’t exactly . . . connected; not into the close thing. He adjusted to it and learned to get by on his own. It was no big deal, until now. Now he’d give anything for someone to talk to; to listen to.

He could still hear Sam’s voice; the inflection and the tone and the way she’d emphasized the word “really.” She’d said she was happy; that he made her really happy. He hadn’t asked her. He wasn’t even thinking about it at that particular moment. But she’d volunteered the information. She’d offered it up, just like she’d offered herself to him months ago while they waited for a cab.

Had she offered herself to Jack, as well? If she had, could he really blame her? There was no comparison between him and Jack, when it came down to it. Jack was smart and tough and confident. He did what he thought was right, no matter what anyone thought or threatened. He was . . . courageous.

Yeah, Jack was the most courageous man Martin knew and pretty much everything he wanted to be, even if he didn’t always agree with him. Samantha deserved a man like Jack.

There was no way Jack would get himself in a situation like this. And if Jack had gotten himself in this mess, there’s no way he’d sit there and cry. Not that Martin had cried, but he wanted to. He felt the tears welling up and it amazed him for a moment that there was any water left in his body to actually come out. Well, he couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let the tears fall because the tracks would freeze on his face and Danny would know when he found him. He’d know that Martin was a real baby when it came to being locked in dark, cold basements for days and days.

There was that stupid pride thing again. Here he was freezing to death with pretty much no hope of salvation, and he was worried about what Danny would think when he found his frozen, tear-stained body. He was either completely delirious or a total nut case. But he still would not cry.

He ended up coughing instead; a deep, painful, wracking cough that hurt all over and brought tears to his eyes. It was just enough to open the flood gates and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing uncontrollably.

+ + + + + + +

It was the ridiculous Santa hat that did it. He wore it proudly with his badge plastered on the front, like that was a perfectly normal, reasonable thing to do. Ridiculous, goofy, and totally irresistible--another one of those little things he did that snuck up on her and grabbed her. Like the whole sci-fi thing. She couldn’t keep from smiling when she remembered the serious, sober look on Martin’s face when he educated her about the current theories regarding alien culture.

She’d always had a thing for geeks. Give her brains over brawn any day.

Of course, Martin didn’t look like a geek. On the contrary, when she was with him, women were positively green with envy. Not that she cared all that much about looks or what other women thought, but there was no mistaking that Martin was a great looking guy. He was a geek inside, though. He knew seemingly useless stuff like which area code matched which city, and he could do impossible things on the computer that only geeky smart guys with 4.0 grade averages could do. He was probably the president of the chess club in high school, too. She’d never asked. Why hadn’t she asked?

He’d gotten so good at this job. She could picture him, calling to her excitedly when he found some minute detail, some tiny clue that would ultimately lead to solving the case. But his computer was turned off now; his chair empty, and the clock just kept ticking. Cruel irony that the same hands that moved so torturously slow, all too swiftly stacked the odds against finding Martin alive. Every minute mattered, and at almost noon, they were no closer to finding him than they’d been at this time yesterday.

Damn it. There had to be something or someone somewhere. Martin didn’t just vanish into thin air. Sam roughly pushed the files on the table away from her and barely resisted the urge to throw her half full coffee mug across the room. She didn’t lose her temper often, but if something didn’t break soon, Jack’s little fit of throwing a chair through glass would look mild compared to what she was going to do.

“Losing your cool won’t help the situation.”

Viv’s calm voice startled her. She hadn’t even heard the woman come in. She didn’t have to ask if Viv had found anything. The lines on her friend’s face said it all, though Viv hid her disappointment behind a mask of cool reserve. It was typical of Viv, and Sam wished she possessed even a tenth of her strength at the moment.

“It’ll make me feel better,” Sam replied, sounding too much like the rebellious child she’d worked so hard to leave behind.

Shaking her head, Viv pulled up a chair and sat down next to Sam. “No, it won’t. Only finding Martin can do that.”

Viv’s brown eyes were full of compassion and concern, and it was too much. “Stop it, Viv. I can’t take it if you get soft and sentimental on me.”

She’d lose it. She was dangerously close to that now.

“Too bad,” Viv said soothingly as she placed her hand on Sam’s arm. “You need soft and sentimental. And you need to talk about it, so I’m not leaving until you do.”

Viv could be maddening sometimes. “Let me be, Viv. Let it be. There’s nothing anyone can say right now.”

“Do you love him?”

Let’s cut to the chase then. Although, it could be argued that the ‘him’ Viv referred to might be one of two men.

It dawned on her that it didn’t really matter whether Viv was asking about Martin or Jack, because the answer was the same: she didn’t know. She might have loved Jack once, but which feelings were nostalgic leftovers and which were real was difficult to discern.

And of course she loved Martin now. He was missing, and everything about him was exaggerated; magnified until the tiniest smile or expression--or God, the way he walked across the room--seemed important and wonderful and essential.

It just wasn’t a fair question and Sam had no intention of answering it.

“Yeah. I think I might.”

Oh God, did that really come out of her mouth?

“Well, then I think you need to tell him . . . when we find him.”

‘When we find him’ . . . Viv sounded so sure. But what if she was wrong? What if they never found him and Sam never, ever got the chance to fix this?

She was crying again. She felt the tears slide across her cheeks and she hated showing that weakness. She would not cry. Brushing the wetness from her face, she tucked her hair back behind her ears and reached across the table for another file. If all she could do was read and reread old files, than it was better than sitting here moping and crying and wishing she’d done it all differently.

Viv sighed, correctly reading that the conversation was over for now, and grabbed a file to peruse. But she added one more thing, “Make sure you tell Jack, too.”

Yeah, that would probably be good.

She should probably do a lot of things. But at this moment, she couldn’t even focus on the print on the page in front of her, or lift her hand to drain the last of her coffee. It was, after all, 11:55 and there was no still no sign of Martin.

Breathing was about the most she could handle.

+ + + + + + +

His feet ached. Jack hadn’t walked this much in years and he remembered why he generally let Danny and Martin do the leg work. He couldn’t do that this time, though. His gut feeling had finally kicked in, and he knew that the answer was out here, on the streets. Martin could even be close by, and that thought had him peering through every window of every old, brick building they passed.

The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped, sending a chill up his spine that really had nothing at all to do with the cold. If Martin was out in this, lying hurt somewhere . . .

It would be dark soon, too soon, and it would get colder. And they were running dangerously close to that forty-eight hour time frame when Martin’s chances took a downward plunge.

Suddenly, kissing Samantha seemed so frivolous and unimportant. And selfish. She needed a man like Martin, and she deserved one like him, too. Hell, there was a multitude of things that made Martin the better man for her. Too bad it took a tragedy to bring that point home. Nothing to be done about it now, except to find Martin. There would be feelings to discuss and sort through later, and God willing, they would all get that chance.

“Shit,” Danny muttered under his breath as he walked beside Jack.

“What?” Jack asked, unsure just which part of this mess Danny was cursing over now.

“It’s getting colder.”

“Yeah.” Nothing more to be said; they both understood the implications of winter in New York.

“You got any hunches?” Danny asked hopefully, and it never ceased to surprise Jack how much they all relied on his instinct to get them through.

“I get the feeling that . . .”

He never finished his sentence because Danny suddenly sprinted off, shouting “Hey! Hey, you! Stop!”

It was a totally unexpected move, but apparently there was a good reason for it, so Jack took off in hot pursuit. He caught up to Danny just as the younger man roughly grabbed a street punk with stringy blond hair and slammed him up against a wall in a deserted alley.

The kid was fighting back, and doing a pretty good job of it, flailing his arms and kicking out at Danny, but Taylor was stronger and more determined. By the time Jack reached the scene, the kid was still squirming, but he was pinned by Danny’s long body and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Where did you get that tie?” Danny asked the punk, a feral look in his eyes that Jack rarely saw.

He wasn’t really a kid; Jack could see that now as he got closer. The guy was more than likely in his late twenties; wiry and strong and high as a kite, by the wild look in his eyes.

“F . . . found it,” their suspect stammered, obviously taken off guard by the two hostile men in suits that suddenly threatened him.

“It’s Martin’s tie,” Danny offered, in case Jack hadn’t caught on. He held his prisoner tightly against the wall, his arm pressed against his throat.

Jack had figured that out. The expensive tie hanging over a filthy sweatshirt was his first clue that something was amiss.

“You can have it!” Panicked now, the young man squirmed in Danny’s arms once more as he tried to rip the tie from around his throat.

This time Jack stepped in and spoke deliberately, hoping the message would get through the clouded brain in front of him. “We don’t care about the tie. We want the man it belongs to. Now where did you get it?”

Swallowing, the punk replied, “I . . . I don’t remember.”

And damn, he was so strung out that Jack actually believed that.

But Danny didn’t. Taylor had relaxed his grip somewhat, but now he slammed the punk up against the wall once more. “Think,” was all he said.

Wild eyes turned from Danny to Jack, as if the kid knew that that was where the real threat lie--or maybe he thought he stood a better chance with Jack. “I took it off . . . some guy. His coat, too . . . but I sold that. Liked the tie, though.”

Ironic and ridiculous that Martin’s questionable taste in ties could end up saving his life, but Jack wasn’t about to argue the point.

“Where is he?” His heart pounded in his throat as he waited for the answer, and for the first time since this all started, Jack had to admit how much he really did care about Martin.

“I don’t . . . know.”

“Like hell you don’t!” Danny shouted furiously, keeping his arm pressed against the guy’s throat.

But Jack figured there might be a better way to play this. He pulled out his badge and his gun and he became the actor he needed to be in these situations, swallowing his anger as he stated calmly, “It would be in your best interest to think harder.”

Could the punk do it? Or was he too strung out to even try? They might have to take him in and wait for him to dry out and what exactly would that mean for Martin?

“You taking me in?” their prisoner asked fearfully, as if he hadn’t frequented the precinct a dozen times or more in his miserable life.

“Not if you tell us what we need to know,” Jack lied. Amazing how good he’d gotten at lying over the years. Amazing . . . and disturbing.

Danny released his hold enough to allow the punk to get back on his feet. Shaky, pale hands massaged a thin, white throat before the nervous eyes turned back to Jack. “I don’t remember . . . exactly. I think I . . . I think I put him somewhere. I remember that he had money and I was thinking someone . . . someone might pay to . . . to get him back. But I’m just . . . I’m not sure . . . where . . .”

Jack and Danny simultaneously rolled their eyes. Danny had been right. It was a random act by a psycho druggie and the guy was too damn stupid to remember what he’d even done with his prize. But Martin had to be in the area; there couldn’t be that many places nearby to stash a man without someone hearing or noticing, even in New York City.

Jack was on his cell, talking first to the local officer heading up the search, and then to Victor Fitzgerald. He called Samantha last, trying and failing not to notice the quiet desperation in her voice when she answered.

“We have a lead, Sam. It won’t be long now.”

She wanted the details, of course, and he gave them to her. She and Viv would be there as soon as they could to help with the search. He could picture her eyes filling with tears as she hung up, and he wished he didn’t want so badly to hold her and make them go away.

Maybe he wasn’t the right man for her, but it didn’t change the fact that he wished he was.

+ + + + + + +

Danny’s heart was pounding so hard and so fast that he was convinced the scumbag next to him could hear it. Jack was on the phone behind him, trailing along as he spoke to the police and to old man Fitzgerald and finally to Sam. Danny didn’t pay attention to what Jack said, though. He was too busy grilling his reluctant prisoner, who he learned went by the undoubtedly phony name of “Kirk”.

He kept his hand locked firmly on Kirk’s arm as they made their way out of the alley, and reminded him frequently that he and Jack both had guns within reach. It probably didn’t matter, though. The creep was too messed up to be a real threat now. He must have surprised Martin or he never could have taken him.

“How’d you do it, huh? How did you bring him down?” Danny asked, hoping he could jog Kirk’s memory.

“I think I . . . I used a brick. Yeah. That was it. I hit him with a brick.”

Shit. Danny almost wished he hadn’t asked.

“Then what?”

“I said I don’t know.”

Danny gripped the arm harder. “Where were you? Do you live around here? Were you close to home?”

A short, bitter laugh preceded the response. “Yeah, right. I live around here.”

They were maybe a half mile from where Martin lived, and the surroundings were going downhill fast, so it wasn’t the stupid question that Kirk wanted to make it. But obviously it wasn’t going to lead Danny where he needed to go.

“Come on, man. Think about this. Get it right and we can fix you up for the night.”

A hopeful gaze met his and it was all Danny could do not to puke in the street. “FBI agents can . . . can do that?”

“We’ll do whatever we have to to get our man back.” And that, at least, wasn’t a lie.

“Get me somethin’ now . . . might help me to . . . to remember.”

Some people were just too stupid to live. And this guy topped the list. If he wasn’t their only link to Martin, Danny thought he just might have to put him out of his misery. Martin had better be alive when they found him, or that’s exactly what he would do.

“No way. You gotta give me something first,” Danny demanded.

“There were some stairs . . . yeah, that was it. I put him in a basement and tied him up with a . . . with a bike chain.”

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. “A bike chain?”

“Yeah. You know, one of those chains with locks on it so people won’t steal your bike.”

“Okay, okay. Where is this basement?”

Maybe he was coming down, or maybe he was wising up, but Kirk got a look in his eye and suddenly clammed up. “Maybe I should, uh, have a lawyer or something. I mean, it wasn’t me who took him . . . I may be a bum, but I don’t . . . kill people.”

Danny stopped walking and tried to catch his breath. Kirk’s sudden need to shift the blame could only mean that he was afraid he had killed someone . . . he was afraid they’d find Martin dead and even a low-life like him knew that no FBI agent would let him walk away from that.

Even though they were now standing on the sidewalk of a fairly busy street, Danny’s first instinct was to throw the guy up against another wall and choke the life out of him until he regained his hazy memory. But before he got the chance, Jack took the ball.

“I don’t have a problem with putting a bullet in your knee cap, if it will jog your memory,” Jack threatened softly in Kirk’s ear.

Their guy believed him, too, by the look of utter terror in his eyes. So apparently Kirk was smarter than Danny thought, because there was no doubt that Jack could and would pull it off if he had to. The man had brass balls and absolutely no fear of whatever consequences the head honchos might think up.

“Listen to me, man!” Kirk pleaded, as he twisted in Danny’s grip to face Jack. “I got a lot for those coats and I . . . I ain’t been thinkin’ real clear ever since. I forgot about him mostly . . . and then . . . and then I figured he must have got himself out by now, you know?”

“I know that if we don’t find our man alive, you’re going to wish you were dead,” Danny promised.

Kirk turned a shade whiter, but he didn’t respond. The ringing of Jack’s cell phone kept Danny from expounding on exactly how dead Kirk was going to be before he was through with him.

“Good. We’ll check it out.” Jack said abruptly to whoever had called, before turning to Danny and adding, “There’s an empty apartment building two blocks west of here.”

With a nod, Danny resumed his grip on his prisoner and practically dragged him along the walk until they came within eyesight of the large, abandoned building. “This look familiar?” he asked the suspect.

Hesitating, Kirk finally mumbled, “Yeah. Yeah, I think this is the place.”

The three men entered the dingy, run down building together, but once inside Danny took out his hand cuffs and cuffed Kirk to a narrow pipe. “We’ll be back for you later. If we remember where we put you.”

“Split up,” Jack instructed as he moved off to the left.

“Alright,” Danny agreed.

He took a right, switching on his flashlight in the encroaching darkness so he could better scan the large foyer for an entry to the basement. It wasn’t more than a few minutes until he found one, and he barged through the door and down the steps without caution, as if he’d never had a day of training in his life. No one would call him on it, and he didn’t care if they did. He was close now, and that familiar adrenaline rush had kicked in. The mystery was about to be solved--the missing found--and this time it was personal.

Minutes, or maybe only seconds later, the soft glow from the flashlight illuminated a body slouched on the floor, chained to a pipe. It was anti-climatic, in a way. No gunshots or fierce fist fights. No espionage or terrorists or even half-baked kidnapping plots. It was all about some stupid, drugged up creep who attacked Martin for his coat and his tie.

Shit.

Danny called out Martin’s name as he rushed to his side, but he didn’t see him move. Martin’s head was slumped forward, and his knees were pulled up and tilted to the side; he’d probably tried to curl up and keep warm. And damn, it was cold down there.

“Martin! Martin! Come on, man!” he called out as knelt to the floor and took Martin’s face in his gloved hands.

Martin still hadn’t moved or made a sound, and with shaky hands, Danny pulled off his gloves to seek a pulse. “Don’t do this, Martin,” he whispered under his breath.

The faint pulse was there, under the icy skin, and the first thing Danny could think to do was to pull off his coat and wrap it around his friend. He gave himself exactly two seconds to be overcome with relief, before pushing aside the personal and becoming the professional he had to be.

He’d just called for an ambulance and was about to ring Jack, when Martin moaned and opened his eyes. Danny practically dropped the phone as he moved within Martin’s line of sight. “Hey,” he started out softly. “I’m here, and we’re getting you out of here. Okay?”

Martin blinked several times and moaned again as he tried to pull his head up higher. “Danny?”

Danny smiled; his name had never sounded so sweet--coming from a man anyway.

“Yeah, it’s me. You got yourself in some trouble here, Fitz.”

Wrong thing to say. He knew it immediately by the shadow that deepened Martin’s eyes. Of course, Fitzgerald would think this was somehow his fault.

“It’s okay. It’s all gonna be fine.”

Martin nodded weakly, drawing in a ragged breath as his eyes filled with tears. He dipped his head again and tremors coursed through his body.

“Martin? What is it?”

Stupid question, of course. Danny could see that dried blood coated Martin’s hair and shirt. His ankle looked twice its normal size and his arms had to be killing him, tied back like that for nearly 48 hours.

Martin’s shoulders shook, and it was only then that Danny realized it wasn’t pain or even cold that caused it. Martin was crying, and trying like hell to hold it in. It was a normal reaction and Danny couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t imagine being stuck in this place for an hour, let alone two days. No food, no water, no one to talk to, no idea if anyone would ever come for you. God. He’d be screaming his ass off, not crying silently.

Wrapping his arms around Martin as best he could, he soothed, “It’s okay. You’ve been through hell and it’s . . . it’s okay.” He paused to let that sink in, then added, “I need to let Jack know where we are, he’s looking in this building, too.”

Martin shook his head. “No . . . please . . . just give me . . . a minute.”

It was about pride, and when it came down to it, Danny couldn’t exactly blame Martin. The guy was a total wreck, physically and emotionally, and thank God he had found him first. Facing Jack wasn’t always easy for Martin when he was looking and feeling good; compound that with the fact that Jack was his boss and the man who had kissed his girlfriend . . . hell, he’d need to give Martin more than a minute.

But less than half a minute had passed when the wail of the ambulance signaled that time was up, so Danny used a finger to wipe any trace of moisture from Martin’s face. “It’s okay,” he repeated, and this time Martin just sighed as he leaned his head back against the pole.

The thought had just formed that Jack was going to kill him for not contacting him the second he found Martin, when his cell rang.

“Danny? Did you call an ambulance?”

“I got him, Jack. We’re on the southwest side, in the basement.”

He could hear Jack’s sigh of relief. “How is he?”

“He’s pretty beat up and really cold, but he’s alive.”

“Were you planning on letting me know?”

“Uh yeah. It’s just that . . .”

“Never mind. I’m almost there.”

Jack arrived at about the same time as the ambulance and the police. Danny was pushed off to the side, only catching a glimpse of Martin through the bodies and the equipment. He felt bad about that. He had a hunch that Martin needed a familiar presence right then, not the detached, clinical professionals who were hovering over him, but there was little choice in the matter.

They had the chain cut within minutes, and Danny tried not to listen when Martin whimpered in pain as his arms were freed and he was stretched out on the cold floor. There was another gasp when they cut his ankles loose, and this time Danny did move closer to witness Martin practically biting through his lower lip. He wouldn’t let it out, damn it, and Danny wanted to scream for him. Damn those Fitzgeralds anyway for teaching a kid that it was wrong to show fear or pain or need.

And what Martin needed right now, even more than a warm blanket and drink of water, was a friend to hold on to. Thankfully, Jack caught on. He stood by as the paramedics loaded their injured teammate on the stretcher, but before they took him up the stairs, Jack gripped Martin’s hand and said something in his ear. Martin’s eyes were closed, but he opened them for a moment and nodded slightly at whatever Jack had told him, and it made Danny feel warmer inside.

Pride be damned; Martin looked up to Jack and he needed him. And whatever happened with Samantha, Danny knew that Jack and Martin would find a way to work around it.

+ + + + + + +

Viv insisted on driving, even though she hated it. She never took the wheel if she could avoid it and usually that was no problem. But not this time; Samantha was shaking like the proverbial leaf and there was no way she was in control enough to drive. In fact, Viv was sure that breathing pretty much took all of her concentration at the moment.

Sam had taken the call from Jack, and mumbled almost unintelligibly that a bum had kidnapped Martin for his tie. That made absolutely no sense, but Viv would get to the bottom of it when she caught up with Jack and Danny.

They’d hardly made it out of the parking garage and merged into the early evening traffic when Sam’s phone rang again. Sam’s eyes were impossibly wide as she scrambled for her cell, and it was all Viv could do to keep her eyes on the road.

“Danny?” Sam questioned, and it was amazing how one word--two syllables--could hold so much fear and so much hope all at once.

Viv couldn’t hear Danny’s end of the conversation, and she seriously thought about pulling onto the crowded sidewalk and yanking the phone from her teammate’s trembling hands.

“Yeah . . . okay,” Samantha muttered, as Viv fidgeted impatiently beside her.

Thank God the light turned red so she could actually turn and face Sam to get an idea if the news was good or bad, or were they still in limbo? Was Martin still missing? She tried to read the expression on Sam’s face, to interpret the tears that clung determinedly to her eyelashes, but she couldn’t find a definitive answer there. And Sam was still not talking; nodding her head as if Danny could see, sighing, and saying nothing at all to clue Viv in.

“Sam?” she all but shouted when the younger woman continued to sit mutely in spite of the fact that the call had ended. “What happened? Did they find Martin?”

Sam nodded, but still didn’t look at Viv and offered nothing more. It was probably a good thing she was driving after all, because as sympathetic as she tried to be, she really just wanted to shake the shit out of Sam right then.

“And?”

“He’s on his way to the hospital. He was . . . chained up in a basement . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and this time, Viv was glad for the silence. She didn’t want to hear the details just yet. The thought of Martin being locked in a basement for two days was bad enough.

She heard Sam choke back a sob and she wanted to tell her to swallow the damn pride and just let it go; cry and scream and kick a little, if that would help. But she knew Sam would never do that, so she took one hand off the wheel and reached over to squeeze Sam’s arm. “The important thing is that we got him back, and he’s going to be fine.”

He was going to be fine, right? Now that she thought on it, Sam hadn’t actually said and her continued silence did nothing to ease Viv’s mind. “Sam? He is going to be alright, right?”

She heard Sam take a deep breath before answering with a slight tremble in her voice, “He’s hurt. But Danny said he was talking to him. He said . . . he said he should be okay.”

Viv abruptly switched lanes and turned on her left-hand signal. Let Danny and Jack tie up things at the scene, she and Sam had more important places to be. “Let’s find out for ourselves.”

An hour later, they were seated in the emergency waiting room, along with what appeared to be half of the city’s population. In stark contrast to Sam’s earlier zombie-like behavior, the young woman was now tense, wired-up, and driving Viv up a wall with her inability to sit still for five seconds.

Danny had called, and Jack, too, but they had no information to give the guys yet. Apparently Victor Fitzgerald had made some calls and given permission for Viv to find out about Martin’s condition, which meant the elder Fitzgerald wasn’t planning to be there himself. Viv couldn’t decide if that was good or bad for Martin. He certainly wasn’t close to his father, but it had to hurt . . . and Viv decided not to think about that for now. She had her hands full with Sam, after all.

The woman in question had finally stopped pacing and now stood absently staring out a frosted window. Maybe she was ready to talk, so Viv made her way through the crowds of crying children and cursing drunks to stand at her side. Sam peered at her from the corner of her eye, before turning back and placing her hand on the cold glass.

“It’s freezing out. He could have . . . would have frozen to death by now,” Sam offered quietly, as if Viv might not have considered that possibility.

“Yes. But Danny found him in time,” Viv assured her, although she managed to sneak a peek in the direction they’d supposedly taken Martin. A word about now would be helpful; just a quick sentence by someone who knew something to ease their minds.

Sam turned to face her and she looked like a little girl when she asked, “What should I do? What should I say?”

Always the mother . . . and she prayed for the right words to come to her. “Let’s take it a step at a time. We find out how Martin is, and then you can think about what you want to tell him.”

Sam nodded, but her uncertainty remained painfully apparent, so Viv added, “Maybe you could start with telling him how worried you were, and how happy you are that he’s here.”

Another nod and Sam was off pacing again, so Viv went in search of more hot coffee, figuring on a very long night ahead.

But in fact, it was only an hour later when a young intern approached them. He verified their identity, and rapidly explained how lucky Martin had been. Sprained ankle, bruised ribs, strained ligaments in his shoulders, mild concussion . . . and the handsome, Brad Pitt-wanna-be smiled like this was all fantastic news. Viv wanted to smack him. The doctors were mostly concerned about Martin’s body temperature and the congestion in his lungs, but if all went well, after a few days of IV fluids and antibiotics, he should be able to go home.

“Can we see him?” Sam asked, her voice stronger than it had been in days, and Viv got the idea that deciding what to say to Martin didn’t matter so much anymore. Sam just wanted to see him and touch him, and Viv couldn’t blame her. Danny and Jack had at least gotten a glimpse of Martin; a brief interaction to assure them that their teammate really was in one piece.

“In the morning,” the young doctor insisted. “We’re still working on him.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam countered. “We’re FBI and we need to see our . . . agent.”

Viv struggled not to roll her eyes at Sam’s rather pathetic attempt to play the FBI card. The doc fell for it, though, or maybe it was the warm smile her pretty blonde friend turned in his direction. Either way, they were quickly escorted to Martin’s temporary cubicle in the Emergency ward.

Sam grabbed onto Viv’s arm as they moved through the curtain partition; the action so uncharacteristically needy that Viv was stunned. She heard Sam’s sharp intake of air when at last Martin was within view, but she ignored it as she moved to her injured teammate’s side. It was Martin’s turn, and she intended to give him her full attention while she had the chance.

He looked terrible, and even though Viv expected that, it still caught her by surprise. Martin always looked good; really, really good. Faded jeans and sweatshirt with a day’s growth of beard, and he still looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ.

But at that moment, he looked frail and sick and completely worn out. Instinctively, she reached over the rail and squeezed his shoulder. He inhaled sharply as he opened his eyes and turned towards her, and she remembered something about strained muscles.

“I’m so sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up just a fraction as he replied, “It’s okay, Viv.”

She knew he meant it because he was looking at her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen. That is, until he noticed Sam standing behind her. The expression in his eyes shifted then, to something like hope, or maybe just longing. Viv wasn’t sure, but she knew she was the fifth wheel in this reunion.

Gently holding Martin’s hand, she promised him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She tried to catch Sam’s eye as she exited the cubicle, but Sam’s gaze was riveted to the man in the bed. And as much as Viv wanted to stick around and make sure her two friends got it worked out, she knew she’d have to let them do it on their own.

Sometimes the hardest part of being the mom was letting go.

+ + + + + + +

He was at a distinct disadvantage; lying flat on his back with all kinds of drugs flowing through his system, muddling his already addled brain. And there she was, looking oh so angelic with her blond hair framing her face like a halo and her eyes all bright and . . . God, she’d been crying. That wasn’t how he’d imagined her at all. He knew she’d be concerned for him; worrying and wondering and maybe regretting . . . although whether she regretted the kiss or the fact that he’d seen it remained to be seen.

But he didn’t figure on her crying and he didn’t think he had it in him to deal with it. She’d better hold it together because if she didn’t--if she shed one single tear--he’d fall apart. She’d witnessed that once when they found his aunt and that was enough. He wasn’t about to let on that he really was a coward and a cry-baby.

She stood there forever, or it seemed that way, as her gaze traveled from his wrapped ankle to his bandaged wrists and ribs, before finally settling on his face. Apparently he looked as bad as he felt--like hell being the accurate description--because she sniffed and winced and looked away.

He hated it that he cared. He wished it didn’t matter so very much how she saw him. But it did matter. He wanted to appear strong and fine . . . just fine . . . for her. No, his life was not shattered by a single kiss or two damn days stuck in a cold, wet basement. It really was no big deal.

Maybe a big deal to her, though, the way her lip quivered and her hand shook as she turned to him once more and reached out to brush his face. “Oh Martin,” she whispered, and it was breathless and sad and only his name, but it nearly did him in.

He bit his lip and closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to see her look at him that way.

Maybe he had been praying for it and longing for it--for her to look at him just that way--but not here and not now after all that happened. It took something away from the moment, knowing he’d nearly died and of course, of course she’d feel something for him now. It could be nothing more than pity or relief or guilt; probably all three, in fact.

But she said his name again, “Martin,” and he found that he couldn’t resist opening his eyes and looking at her. And he tried, he tried to focus and look deep inside her to know what she felt, but the drugs were kicking in and he was so tired. Had he slept at all? It was strange how it all blurred in his mind. It had seemed endless when he was trapped, but now that he was out, it seemed more like a nightmare with no definite beginning or ending.

Her voice was entirely too far away when she said, “Martin, I’m sorry,” but he knew he should respond anyway. He should drag himself back and tell her . . . tell her what? Too tired, he was much too tired to think about that, let alone actually open his mouth and form words.

He felt a feather-light touch on his forehead--a kiss, he thought--and he leaned in to it and held on to it and wished he could do more, say more. But all he could manage was a weak moan before he drifted off into a deep sleep.

It was a short-lived rest. He seemed to be constantly moving from one surface to the next; X-rays and MRIs and CT scans and other things with letters that he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around. Added to that were the nurses who bugged him to deep breathe and cough, and by the time the morning sun glistened through the frosted window of his room, he was certain he’d completely missed the night.

But at least he was warm and safe, and for the first time since Danny had found him, he was clear-headed enough to grasp just how wonderful that was. He promised himself he’d never take the little things in life for granted again. When nagging concerns about Jack and Sam threatened his new found peace, he pushed them aside and concentrated on feeling thankful and content just to be alive.

He owed Danny, and he drifted off with that thought in mind, so he thought maybe he was dreaming when he opened his eyes to see his hero standing next to his bed. His mouth was dry as cotton, and it sounded more like a rasp than an actual word when he mumbled, “Danny?”

No mistaking that cocky grin, though, as Danny shoved a glass of water under his chin and poked the straw in his mouth. The water tasted like heaven, if a place could have a taste, and okay, so maybe he wasn’t all that clear-headed after all.

Danny eyed him critically as he set the glass back down on the bedside table. “You feel better?”

Yes and no. Everything hurt, but there was that part about being grateful he could still feel anything at all, so he went with the positive. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Well good, because you look like shit.”

Martin smiled, only his sore ribs keeping him from laughing outright. He grew serious, though, when he saw Danny’s mood abruptly changed as he took in the extent of Martin’s injuries. He could have sworn he saw guilt on his friend’s face, though he couldn’t imagine why.

“Thank you for finding me, Danny.”

“It was a team effort. And I’m sorry it took us so long.”

So that was it. Danny was kicking himself for leaving some stone unturned--or for not turning the stones over quickly enough. Well that was just wrong, and Martin told him so.

“I know you did everything you could. I’m just grateful you found me at all.”

“It was sheer, dumb luck, Martin. That stupid drugged up idiot who attacked you didn’t have sense enough to get rid of your tie.”

He knew that. Someone had told him that at some point during the long night. But it was still his team’s persistence that had paid off in the end. Danny had pounded the pavement for him, and it counted.

Martin searched for the right words to express how very much it mattered. “Danny . . . I prayed the whole time that it would be you who found me. I knew you wouldn’t give up and I knew . . . I knew you’d know what I needed and . . . you did. I don’t know how to thank you, man.”

He could have sworn Danny had tears in his eyes, but it may have just been the way the sunlight hit his face. “No problem. But we do have to talk about taking walks alone in the city at night. This ain’t Seattle.”

“Yeah. Stupid, I know.”

“I didn’t say that, Martin. You’re a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them, so quit thinking that way.”

He wanted to argue that point, but Viv stepped in his room and entered the conversation without missing a beat. “He’s right, Martin. You were a victim of circumstance . . . in more ways than one.”

Oh. So Viv knew about the kiss and probably Danny, too.

He didn’t get a chance to respond, because the next person to come in was Jack. “Don’t you all have work to do?” he chided Viv and Danny, but it wasn’t a serious threat and they all knew it.

They also knew that Jack needed some privacy with Martin, so Danny excused himself by patting Martin’s shoulder and offering a “talk later” as he strode out the door. Viv leaned over the rail and softly said, “Guess I’m not gonna get my chance. But I just want you to know that we missed you.”

He could feel his eyes tearing up, but he swallowed and willed the emotion away as he mumbled, “Thanks, Viv. For everything.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably when they were left alone, and Martin turned his eyes to the window. What was there to say, really?

Clearing his throat, Jack finally spoke up, “Your father . . .”

“Doesn’t matter,” Martin interrupted. And it didn’t. There was nothing like a near death experience to remind you of what mattered in life and what didn’t.

Jack moved closer to the bed and looked Martin in the eye. It was impossible to look away from Jack Malone when he pierced you with that look. Martin had tried before and it just couldn’t be done.

“I’m sorry, Martin. For Sam. What you saw, it didn’t mean anything.”

Of course it did. It meant everything. But Jack would downplay it because poor Martin had sat for two days chained to a pipe and everyone felt so sorry for him. Two months, or maybe only two weeks from now, it would all be a different story.

“Don’t say that, Jack. Please. We both know that it’s what she wants that will count in the end.”

Jack tried again. “I have no intention of resuming a relationship with Sam.”

Martin wanted to remind him that what we intend to happen and what actually happens are generally two different things, but he didn’t bother. He just answered, “Okay.”

“Can you . . . can we work together? I want you on my team, Martin, but I have to know that we can get past this.”

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. But he couldn’t imagine not being part of the team. Maybe he’d have to give up Samantha, but if he had to give up the job, too – what would be the point of getting up in the morning? They could have just left him tied to the pipe.

He met Jack’s gaze straight on. “It’s over, Jack. I’m a professional and so are you. The personal shit stays at the door.”

Easier said than done, especially when the “personal” part he referred to came hesitantly through the door. The first thing that entered Martin’s mind was the old cliché, “deer in the headlights”. That was exactly how Sam appeared when she saw Jack standing at Martin’s bedside.

Jack flicked his gaze to Sam before reaching out to shake Martin’s hand. “I’m glad you’re okay, Martin. We need you on our team.”

Jack walked out then, leaving a blushing, obviously flustered Sam to have a turn with Martin. She didn’t get a chance to open her mouth, though, before there was a knock on the door. She went to see who was there, and Martin heard her mumble, “Thanks,” before she returned to his room, loaded down with a huge flower arrangement.

“Your mother sent flowers,” Sam said. “They are quite . . . extravagant,” she added when Martin didn’t respond.

He gave the flowers a cursory glance and tried not to show his embarrassment at his mother’s pitiful attempt to show she cared. The bouquet was extravagant, alright--lush and exotic and overdone--so that every single person who entered the room would have to comment on it.

“Take it with you,” he said to Sam, because suddenly he was done; done with playing the dutiful son.

Standing up to his parents was never a big problem for him, but he generally tried to act the role he was expected to play, at least with the insignificant things. It was a matter of keeping the peace, choosing your battles, and flower arrangements didn’t generally warrant his attention. Until today; today everything took on new meaning and new significance and he had more important things to think about. The flowers had to go.

“Alright,” Sam replied, and she looked crestfallen as she lifted the heavy vase off the table and headed for the door.

“Sam? I didn’t mean now. I wasn’t telling you to leave,” he clarified. And God, what hope did they have if they couldn’t even communicate anymore on this basic level?

Setting the flowers back down, she moved closer to his side once more, but she said nothing. Not a single word or sound left her lips as she slid her hand along his leg and up to his bruised chest. She stopped there for a moment, her hand lingering on the skin exposed above the ace wrap, before moving to his arms and his wrists. Still she said nothing, only now it was both hands caressing his face, his jaw, his lips, until he thought he’d die from holding his breath.

“Oh God, Martin,” she finally choked, and there were tears rolling across her cheeks, and his, too, only he didn’t care.

She held his gaze and leaned in to kiss him. And it was sweet and gentle and everything he needed and wanted, and it meant everything.

Or maybe it meant nothing at all . . . only time would tell.

The End….

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