I will officially start posting this fic on Sunday, March 12, 2006.
TITLE: Hurt (working title)
AUTHOR: Jennifoofighter
RATING: R
KEYWORDS: Martin angst, case file and MS (of course).
SPOILERS/TIMELINE: This is set later in Season 4 based on speculation and spoilers but no unaired episodes will be mentioned. Knowledge of episode 1x5: "Suspect" and 1x21: "Are You Now or Have Your Ever Been?" would be helpful but not completely necessary.
ARCHIVE: This is a work-in-progress so do not archive until it is complete. DISCLAIMER: Hank and Co. own everything Without a Trace. No copyright infringement is intended…..blah, blah, blah. Believe me, if I owned them things would be very different.
SUMMARY: As Martin tries to rebuild his life in the wake of his addiction, a case from the past pulls him back into the Missing Persons Unit.
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I hurt myself
today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only
thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar
sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
- Nine Inch Nails, 'Hurt'
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Teaser
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Martin stared at the gun barrel glittering against the flashing police lights outside the hotel room window. The air reeked of the acrid smell of stale air, sweat, and blood causing bile to rise in the back of his throat. He swallowed it back down; the last thing he needed right now was to vomit. He could feel thick beads of sweat slide down his back causing his shirt to stick to him. He didn't know if he was sweating because of the hot air blowing out of the old gas heater to his right or the incredible craving he was having for an OxyContin or Vicodin.
Of course, the cause was most likely from seeing Andy Deaver holding the revolver to his chin threatening to kill himself.
He looked over at Andy who was crouched in the small space between the nightstand the wall looking very much like a scared little boy. His face was pale against the dried blood along his temple. He was rocking back and forth nervously shifting his gaze from the window to Martin.
Martin licked his lips trying to think of what he could say to help convince Andy to put the gun down and walk out of the room, reasons he could give him to live; but there was the nagging voice in his head that kept reminding him that his past two attempts at talking someone down during a crisis both resulted in tragedy. Images of Anwar Samir and Brian Stone flashed in his mind. He didn't want to fail again. He couldn't fail – not this time. His life depended on it as much as Andy's.
He cleared his throat and softly said, "Andy, we know what happened wasn't your fault. You don't have to do this."
Andy stared back at him through wire framed glasses, his eyes looking infinitely sad and lost. He watched Martin for a beat before looking down at the hotel's dirty worn shag carpet. Tears started streaming down his cheeks again and he hunched his shaking shoulders as he wept.
Martin slowly crept towards him, he wanted to comfort him, reassure him that everything would be alright but Andy noticed and immediately panicked. He pointed the gun at him and shouted, "Stay back! Don't come near me!"
Martin froze; simultaneously surprised and relieved that Andy would turn the gun on him and away from himself. He nodded his head and slumped back against the wall. "I just want to help you Andy."
Andy shook his head vehemently and in a small frightened voice said, "No one can help me. It's too late."
Martin wanted to tell Andy that he knew exactly what he was feeling. He knew what it was like when all you can feel is pain, hurt, ache and you desperately want someone to help pull you up from the abyss. To have someone understand what you are going through but no one does. And you get angry at them for not noticing, not caring but the hard truth is no one is able to help you because as much as you wanted it you also pretended that everything was fine. He knew this because it was exactly how he had been feeling since the shooting. No, that wasn't true. He had been feeling that way since things disintegrated so badly with Sam.
Things that make you hurt don't always come from wounds you can see.
Martin looked back at Andy and gently replied, "It's not too late. Let me…."
"You can't," Andy said as he pushed the gun back under his chin. With a trembling finger on the trigger he cried, "I'm just tired of hurting…."
"No!"