Archive of Our Own

She knows she should have learned her lesson with Jack. But then, Martin wasn't Jack. He wasn't married; no kids, no responsibilities. Looking back, she thinks she was with him because she could be. Because he'd been looking at her with stars in his eyes from the moment he first entered the office and introduced himself. Because he'd been asking her to have a drink with him for months. Because, after all, he was nothing like Jack, and she needed to prove that she could deal with Jack's feeble attempts at mending the shattered remains of his marriage.

In the end, ironically, it didn't work out for the same reasons that it started in the first place. There was no fight, no angry words spat, no accusations. She just took the few clothes she used to keep in Martin's apartment one morning before they went to work, and didn't return.

It was meant to be casual and nonchalant, even if it felt like running away; and the looks that Martin keeps sending her in the office, which alternate between hurt and frosty, make her feel guilty and dirty.

She remembers that the atmosphere at work used to be warm and friendly, but that seems like a lifetime ago. Martin is avoiding her. Vivian has been looking at her disapprovingly ever since she noticed that Samantha was involved with Martin. Jack is so detached and professional that she sometimes wonders whether they've ever been intimate at all. And Danny... Danny always seems on the verge of telling her something, but holds back in the last moment.

It's an emotional minefield every day, and that's not even counting the cases. Sometimes she just wants to call them all together and yell, "Look, I'm sorry." But then, she doesn't think it would solve much, as Jack and Vivian are barely talking either - which has little to do with Samantha and wouldn't be improved by an apology from her - and she can't remember the last time Martin and Danny went out together. Possibly before she and Martin... well, maybe that, too, has something to do with her.

The problem is that she isn't sorry. Jack left her - broke her heart into smithereens, and Martin was the comfort-slash-revenge-slash-ego boost she needed. And even if it all backfired terribly somehow, she'd probably do it all over again.

As things are, though, every day when they all make it home without having killed each other seems to be a good day; even when the constant tension is getting to her and a hammering headache manifests whenever she comes even close to the office and won't go away for the rest of the day. She cannot remember the last time she slept properly, either.

"You look tired," Viv comments when Samantha steps out of the elevator, and Sam just wants to reply when the older woman adds, "Didn't get too much sleep last night?" It's not so much what she says as it's the way she says it, as if she wants to imply that Samantha spends her nights sleeping around.

Or maybe she's just too sensitive these days and reads too much into everything.

"I'm fine." But the smile on her lips is fake and the lie is too obvious.

She's been in for two minutes, and she already wishes the day was over. But then Jack comes in, all business, and tells them about Mary Jane Huxley, 16, who's missing for 31 hours now, and Samantha knows it's going to be a long day.

Danny joins Samantha to interview the parents. M.J. is a bit of a party girl, the mother says, almost apologetic. Mr. Huxley uses harsher words. No, he's not worried. The brat is probably just staying over at her boyfriend's, wherever that is: "How the bloody hell should I know? She's with a new guy every week."

Samantha wants to hit him, or at least lash out verbally, but Danny's hand on her shoulder keeps her in check. Mary Jane's father stomps off, while his wife shows the agents around. Mary Jane's room is a mess, clothes lying around, piled up on the bed. "She rarely sleeps here," Mrs. Huxley says, close to tears. "I wish I could tell you more about her, but... it feels as if I don't know her at all anymore. It's as if there's this strange woman who has replaced my little girl."

"It's called growing up," Samantha mutters under her breath when the woman is just out of earshot, hurrying downstairs as if she can't stand to be in her daughter's room a minute longer.

They don't find anything significant. Danny takes up one of the photos - a laughing blonde girl framed by two grinning guys.

"She looks a bit like you," he says, and Samantha's head snaps around. It's such an uncharacteristic thing to say, even if he's right. It might be a dig, or maybe just a casual observation. Sam wishes she could read his face; and suddenly she remembers that she used to be able to. Once, before Martin, back when things were different and they were friends.

Her voice is sharper than she wants it to be when she replies, "Well, except that I'm still hanging around and she's not."

Danny looks up at her, brow furrowed, and he actually opens his mouth to say something - but then he stops himself and shakes his head. He replaces the photo and continues going through M.J.'s things. The urge to confront him grows stronger, but this is neither the time nor the place.

Back at the office, the air seems even icier than it was before. Mary Jane's photo is clipped to the white board, a portrait that shows her hugging her mother's dog happily. Samantha can't help but notice the irony that the missing girl would be the only person in the room wearing a smile.

She's paired with Martin later, sent off to Mary Jane's school. They usually don't talk, other than what's absolutely necessary. Alas, their conversation is reduced to 'I talk to subject x while you interrogate y,' or 'Did you find out anything about the car?', and even then, it's obvious that talking to her hurts Martin, or makes him mad, or maybe both.

It comes as a surprise to Samantha when Martin turns to her on the way to the school. "I handed in my request for a transfer earlier. I just thought you should know."

"You didn't have to," Samantha says. What she doesn't say is that she hates him for it, because her own request has been sitting in the top drawer of her desk for a week now; and she was just waiting for the perfect moment to drop the bomb. But now Martin beat her to it, and she knows that she will have to stick around. And, oh God, the idea is unbearable.

He smiles mirthlessly. "I did."

They carry on in silence.

For someone who is classified as 'missing', there are certainly very few people actually missing M.J. The girls at her school hate her because "she was just a tart," and the only thing the boys seem to be able to say about her is that she slept around: "You know, there are girls you date and then there are girls you... well, bed," Geoff, a lanky 18-year-old, has the nerve to tell the agents.

On their way out, Samantha wonders, not for the first time, if anyone would miss her if she was suddenly gone.

"Don't be silly," Martin says, and it's only then that she realizes she's mused aloud. Her head snaps around. It's the first time in ages... well, since their break-up, really... that she had a good look at him. Martin looks tired, dark shadows under his eyes. Is this because of her? She couldn't possibly tell; and she won't ask.

"I'm not being silly," Samantha says. "It's just... everyone casts me as the villain in this, and I'm starting to wonder if there's anyone at all who doesn't hate me."

He doesn't have anything to say to that - which, in fact, says enough.

"I never told you I loved you," she adds quietly. "I never made it anything it was not."

He sighs. "No, you didn't. I never said it was your fault, did I?"

Not in so many words, she thinks, but doesn't say anything.

They work through the night, checking credit cards, doing rounds in Mary Jane's favorite clubs. It's four-thirty in the morning when Samantha's cell rings. It's Jack, letting them know that M.J. is back home, having spent the day in Boston with a friend. Instead of being relieved, Jack sounds mad. "That's just what we need," he fumes, "silly teenage girls wasting our time."

Samantha doesn't reply, but secretly, she wonders when he became like this. The Jack she knew - the Jack she loved - would have been happy that the girl was unharmed. Danny, in contrast, is more relieved than anything at the news.

"I don't think I could face dragging her body out of the gutter somewhere," he admits, shivering when the cool night air hits them as they leave the Den and walk to his car.

Samantha nods. "I know. Things are bad enough these days, are they?"

Danny looks at her from the side, just staring at her in silence. She has already given up hope that he'll ever say it, whatever it is he wants to say. But then, he suddenly tells her, "It's not your fault," and Samantha can't decide what surprises her more - the fact that he actually speaks up, finally, or what he's saying.

"Not just yours, anyway. We all messed up." He smiles a little - that little wry, slightly conspiratorial smile that seems so familiar. She hasn't seen that one in a while.

"That's not what the others think."

"It's easier to judge you than to blame themselves." Danny holds the door on the passenger side open for her. "Do you want to come and have a drink with me?"

Warning lights flash up before her inner eye. She can remember that all this mess started with a question like that. Well, maybe not started, but Martin's invitation still stood as the crucial moment from where things went from bad to worse. "Danny, look, I don't think-"

Laughter interrupts her before she can finish the thought. It's good to hear someone laughing, she thinks. It's been a while.

"Relax. I mean, as a friend," Danny clarifies, still smirking. "I think you've had your share of office romances for the next, say, five years."

"At least!" Samantha feels a grin stretching her lips - a sensation that has become frighteningly unfamiliar and dissolves as quickly as it came. "Yeah, that sounds good. I could use a friend."

Danny slides into the car beside her, and they drive off. The silence between them feels less loaded than before, almost comfortable. For once, it doesn't feel like an ending, but a beginning instead. She watches the highway through the window, and falls asleep.