lived and were

by: airebella e. spencer

disclaimer: yeah. I wish. Hank did it.

feedback: go on. it makes me happy. [email protected]

summary: It went too deep. Samantha/Martin

notes: tobiascharity, for rockin' the beta.

***

The phone rings once, and you know it's him.

You've been home now for a day, a week, a month -- somewhere in between the prescription refills and the physical therapy you lost count. There have been flowers, you remember: they followed you home from the hospital like your slight limp (temporary) and wooden cane. Still, somehow, you managed to recover.

He never came to visit.

You woke up on a Tuesday, from the anesthesia and the black to see Jack by your bedside (Get well soon-Love Jack, Marie and the girls). Vivian came, you recall, with a relieved smile on her face, Danny with a pair of long legs in a cocktail dress whose name wouldn't matter. You waited, then, for Martin, but he never came.

(The day before you left he sent you two dozen white roses. You were supposed to be asleep, when the nurse came in with the baskets. There was no note, but you could smell his cologne at the door.)

When you came home to an empty house, you wondered if you'd be okay. The nightmares are less frequent now.

(Funny, how you always seem to remember how the color left his face when your eyes met.)

There is a stage, you've been told, a stage where trauma victims can begin to function normally with the rest of society. You've entered this stage, now. You go to work, and your sweet smile is almost genuine. Those are the good days. Your cane isn't a crutch, the food sits in your stomach quietly, and Danny takes you on an interview. Your empty home doesn't seem as lonely.

Until the hole in your leg swells and you remember the piece of metal lodged in between the tissue and the muscle.

(It went too deep.)

On the bad days you limp, because you know they're waiting for you to crack. The smell of orchids and lilies in the morning makes you vomit and you still can't look him in the face.

When the feel of the bullet piercing your skin is so real that it wakes you in the dead of night, you wonder where you managed to lose yourself.

You are on the couch with a cup of warm tea when the phone cuts into the infomercial you weren't watching. The clock reads 2:47 am, and by the second ring you know for sure that it's him.

The machine picks up after the fifth.

("Hey, college girl." His voice catches, and the rest doesn't matter.)

[fin]