|Five words Samantha Spade never spelled
||[Jan. 4th, 2006|02:49 am]
I decided to write a new style of fic. A new style for me anyway, and I have to say I like it. But it's almost impossible go wrong with this style. I read GREAT House fanfictions and Veronica Mars fics using the 5 things theme...
Title: Five words Samantha Spade never spelled
Author: Shirley Parker
Summary: There is always 5 steps...
Disclaimer: They are not mine. If they were I would probably freak out and start to write about the wedding today. Yeah, I am silly like that.
Thanks to my lovely beta, andj44. You rock!!! I love our MSN chats honey .
Five words Samantha Spade never spelled
“So…is agent Fitzgerald available on the market?”
The mirrors of the FBI’s bathroom reflected a red-haired bitch with silicone boobs and an almost transparent turquoise dress applying make up in her face, mumbling a cheesy and shallow song with lyrics that suited her well. Her tune was amicable, almost desperate for some sort of friendly connection.
Fake smile, long legs, collagen lips, and plastic beauty.
Samantha despised the woman’s futile perfection and her “secret” agenda.
She wanted him.
“Yes, he is”
It was almost impossible to shadow the hostility displayed in her speech.
Tapping her foot cheerfully, the agent smiled broadly.
Samantha fixed her hair, staring at her optical image. He red dress and favorite ‘fuck me’ shoes were impeccable. She indeed put a lot of effort in arrange a perfect outfit.
“Too bad he only likes brunettes.”
Turning her heels she left her alone, heading to the party.
She wasn’t the jealous kind.
“Just stop with this passive–aggressive treatment and be straight with me Martin! Seriously, what do you really expect from this relationship? What do you want?”
She shouted the last question.
There was no answer.
The screams stopped when she felt her throat soar and her blood pumping so hard against arteries and veins it made her heart ache, literally. She was on the verge of having a heart attack, maybe even cry.
She couldn’t cry.
Never again, Samantha.
Sam swallowed hard, trying in vain to regain the moisture of her airways. Her stupid, fragile vocal cords.
Martin was tired of her, he didn’t even need to say it.
Samantha felt jaded, her heart breaking a little bit by the consciousness; they were damned. The constant patronizing talks and the unattainable standards were oppressive, too oppressive for the survival. It was driving her crazy.
There were nights when she prayed for him to royally screw up so the pedestal she put him o could eventually collapse. Make them free, equals.
She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. The feeling she wasn’t good enough for him. How could she when his acts always seemed flawless, his intentions always pure, there were no stains in his past and no selfish acts?
She screamed the last question again, breaking her favorite vase in the process. The flowers he bought her and water were splattered on the ground.
“What I want, you can’t give me.”
Samantha started to laugh like a maniac, despite the fact tears threatened to fall. Martin would label her a lunatic.
Too bad for him, he just didn’t see how ridiculous the situation really was.
Samantha didn’t believe in magic, premonitions, ghosts, spirits, or the new age crap media loved to commercialize... not anymore anyway. She wasn’t cool enough to eat granola and believe in the power of oracles.
But still, she eagerly waited to hear the psychic’s words. All she really needed was guidance to make her regain the wisdom that was scarce in the last months, to make it all go again.
“Can you help me please? I’m feeling so lost.”
Vivian was sick, Jack was grieving, and Danny was desperately trying to mend them all... Martin was...
Samantha pleaded, begged for some clarification.
It was a really exhausting day, horrid actually.
Unfortunately, the prospect of tomorrow was even more gruesome.
Samantha had so many things to process in a few hours she hoped time would pity her and slow down, making seconds turn into years. Feelings would subside by then, right?
Welcome to the place of agonizing pain and tears, loser.
Sleep was tempting now, being in a comatose state even more . Running away was always an eliciting option even when she was happy.
But she stayed, enduring the sharing of joy, pain, and tears.
Past, past tense for Christ sake!
Her hair was still wet when her head hit the pillow, touching his side of the bed. Knowing he would never stay anymore was therapy and punishment. It was the first night in thousands of nights he would be gone.
No more dimples when he smiled, no more kisses, no more late talks.
And what she would miss the most: Touches beyond fingertips.
In a fetal position, she cried... sobbed.
She missed he secure nook
Breath in, breath out.
He was alive.
Thank God he was alive.
“If you died I would miss you forever. Thanks for being there, Martin.”
The drugs didn’t let him reply, assure her he would never be gone but it was okay.
Now she could breath.
The word alive echoed, played in her mind thousand of times. It made her believe he didn’t die. There were moments of pure panic sprinkled in the 24 hours when she didn’t know if she was hallucinating or not.
Looking at the man laying in bed, surronded by intimidating machines realization hits her.
She knew the answer and it didn’t scare her anymore.
Kissing his cold fingers she rested her head by his side, slowly emerging in the land of dreams.
She found peace.
AN: Just before someone point out, the bargain part is implied.