Pairing: Martha/Charles, mainly just Martha though
Summary: The origin of Martha’s mental breakdown is revealed.
Rating: PG-13 (mature themes)
Disclaimer: 24 does not belong to me. If it did, the first thing I would do is bring back George Mason, damnit.
Any good? Yes? No?
September 8th, 2001
September 8th, 2001
New York, New York
Martha Logan turned on her heel and surveyed the room. With all the lavish furnishings and practical accommodations of penthouse suite, she found it difficult to complain without appearing pretentious and haughty. She leaned against the peach-colored walls and folded her arms across her chess, skeptically observing every minute detail of the establishment that was to be her home for the next three and a half weeks, if all went well. The bellboy was in and out with her baggage in a flash, followed by her husband, who entered the room after granting the bellboy a generous tip.
“Well, what do you think?” Charles questioned, sounding more than proud of himself as he glanced around the hotel room.
Her arms maintaining their position across her chest, she slowly moved towards him. The look of determination in her eyes gave her away immediately for Charles knew it all too well. She leaned forward, her eyes meeting his defiantly.
“I hate this room and everything it stands for.”
He shrugged and patted her patronizingly on the shoulder as he slowly walked past her.
She turned around in followed him, her anger and resentment commandeering her every step.
“‘Now, Marty’? That’s what you have to say?”
“Yes,” Charles replied simply. “You know just as well I do that this room stands for nothing more than your improved mental health. And nothing less.”
“There is nothing wrong with my mental health. My mental health is just fine.”
Charles shook his head and wagged his finger at her condescendingly.
“That’s not what you said four days ago when you voluntarily signed off on this whole ordeal.”
“I was coerced!” Martha exclaimed ardently.
“You were not coerced,” He replied calmly.
“I was intimidated!”
“You were not intimidated.”
She came at him quickly, but he was too fast for her. He held his arms out and wrapped them around her before she had a chance to break free. At first she was tense and overwrought, but she gradually surrendered her fitful rage in favor of the calm sanctuary his arms offered her.
“This…” He began in a cautious whisper. “This is why you’re here.”
She nodded against his shoulder, trying in vain to stop a few stray tears from sliding down her cheek.
Martha pulled back slightly to look him square in the eyes.
“You are going to get through this,” he told her, firmly. “I swear to you, we will fix this.”
She nodded again and he reached up to wipe away the solitary tear that was traveling down her cheek.
“You’re positive that three weeks with Dr. Walsh is going to magically absolve me of all my pesky ailments?” Martha asked uncertainly.
“No,” Charles answered honestly. “But if not him, it’ll be someone else, so why not?”
Shortly after sufficiently building up her wall of confidence, he left. His relatively new position as U.S. Senator required his immediate presence in Washington, as did his seventeen-year-old daughter, Lily, who was just as frightened by her mother’s situation as he was. Although Charles was reluctant to leave Martha in Manhattan alone, she was being chaperoned, for lack of a better word, by their son, Adam, who was then a junior at New York University. Adam had been given strict instructions to check in on his mother daily, twice if possible, and report back to his father by the end of each day.
Following her husband’s departure, Martha spent several hours sprucing up her temporary home until she was satisfied with what little reminiscent feelings of comfort is exuded. With designs on the television remote, she collapsed onto the couch and reached for the rectangular contraption. Instinctively turning to CSPAN, as she always did when the Senate was in session, to see if she could catch a mention of her husband. When she tired of hearing the name Arlen Specter tossed around incessantly, she switched the tv off, silently cursing the state of Pennsylvania for their stupidity. As Arlen Specter’s ghoulish image slowly faded from her mind, she leaned back against the armrest and closed her eyes. After a few seconds, her eyes shot open and she sat up straight. She should have known better. She should have caught herself. The one haunting vision in the world she preferred less than Arlen Specter-
Any good? Yes? No?
Current Mood: exhausted
Current Music: Better Days- Goo Goo Dolls