Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer Films, CBS, etc. No infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Characters: Martin/Sam, Tina

Rating: PG.

Spoilers for various episodes up until "The Road Home". Just in case not everyone caught it, Sam mentions that Martin's housekeeper is Tina. This is from her point of view.

Comments: I love them. And concrit is much loved too.

Mr. Fitzgerald has repeatedly insisted that I called him Martin, but even after 4 years my habits are hard to break. I am accustomed to working for high-strung, upper-class businessmen and their snotty, self-indulgent wives who patronize me with broken Spanish. Too bad they don't realize that most of what comes out of their mouths is garbage. Mr. Fitzgerald has never been that type of man, and since he has always treated me with respect, I offer the same in return.

However, as much as I respect him, I can't help my nosiness. Maybe it's the fact that we have such a comfortable employee/employer relationship. Comfort breeds familiarity, so they say. I have learnt things about him and watched him undergo changes, even if I only show up every Sunday morning. I first realized that I was snooping a little too much when I noticed a pregnancy test in his bathroom many months ago as I was emptying the trash.

I was alone in the suite at the time. He mentioned in passing that he was going for a jog and would probably not be back before I finished up. He wished me a good week and continued out the door. I sat down slowly on the edge of the bathtub and stared into the trashcan. There it was in its sickly pastel blue colour, taunting me to check it.

I have never been particularly concerned about personal matters of my employers; I am, after all, paid to clean, not to get involved. It was just so tempting.

I had seen her, the woman I assume was the user of the pregnancy test. For months prior I had noticed a steady increase in the number of feminine accessories and garments in his apartment. Every so often I would move a pair of expensive leather pumps onto the front shoe rack. Occasionally, I would pick up discarded blouses or an unfamiliar set of keys. I knew Mr. Fitzgerald was seeing a lady, but for months she was merely a ghost who left small trinkets of herself in random places. He never mentioned her to me either. Why would he? It wasn't my business but somehow I was curious. Now, I have no intentions towards Mr. Fitzgerald. I am happily married with 3 lovely children. I like to consider it a pretty successful life for a second-generation immigrant family. We are all happy, well-educated and well-fed. Of course, Mr. Fitzgerald's generous tips help as well. He likes to call them "bonuses" for doing an outstanding job. I hope it isn't because he feels sorry for me. Regardless, my intention was never to become so curious about this new woman, although if I was picking up after her, I figured a name to the discarded clothing would be nice.

I saw her face for the first time on a particularly slow Sunday morning in December of last year. I was dusting the large, brand-new television set when I heard movement from the direction of Mr. Fitzgerald's bedroom. It was strange that he hadn't been awake earlier to greet me as is the usual. Then I saw her padding sleepily down the small corridor and realized why. She hadn't seen me yet, her senses dull and muted enough not to pick up on the movement or sound I created. I watched her yawn and crack her neck, pushing back her messy blonde hair from her face as she proceeded in the direction of the kitchen.

I said nothing, just kept dusting with an eye on her. Then she looked up and immediately her hand instinctively reached for something at her hip. I froze under her stare. She patted her hip where her flannel pajama pants were slung low on her hips. It was then that I realized she was like him, an FBI agent or a cop, something in the law. She had been reaching for a gun that was not there. She looked embarrassed for a moment after realizing what I was doing there. She immediately crossed her arms over her chest, covering herself, in a vain attempt since she wore nothing but a small tank-top. I noticed with some humor that she had a pattern of ice-skating penguins on her pajama pants. I would have never imagined an FBI woman with pants like those. She regarded me with a cool stare, saying nothing for a long time. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but there appeared to be a moment of panic, as if she was caught doing something she shouldn't have been.

Finally she spoke up, telling me her name was Samantha, and nervously pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. She mentioned she was just going to get some water. I meant to introduce myself as well but she scurried into the kitchen in such a way that I understood she was not in the mood for polite conversation. She gave me a tight smile as she walked back to the bedroom. I assumed Mr. Fitzgerald must also be awake because I caught some of their conversation before she shut the door.

"Martin, you have a very small Puerto Rican woman in your living room. Nearly gave me a heart attack." She was curious about me.

"Yeah. That's my housekeeper." He sounded tired. "Her name's Tina, and she's from the DR. Be nice."

"You have a maid?" Her voice was incredulous.

And that is all I heard before the door clicked shut.

She wasn't around for the next few weeks, but then, neither was Mr. Fitzgerald. He popped by in early January with my paycheck and a lovely bonus. There was a look on his face that I couldn't quite place. He seemed as if he wanted to say something, but at the last moment, he shook it off and wished me a pleasant week before turning and running out the door again, presumably to her.

A week later, at around 11 in the morning, the key turned in the lock, and there they both were. She entered without even seeing me again. I could tell by her ignorance that she wasn't used to this kind of lifestyle, and judging by her pricey but very practical shoes, she never had been. It was only as she tossed her jacket onto a chair that she saw me standing by the window, rag and Windex in hand. She paused again, but this time she didn't reach for her invisible gun. In a much better mood than our previous meeting, she smiled. "Morning, Tina."

"Morning Samantha, Mr. Fitzgerald."

He chuckled at my formality. "Sounds like my dad. I'm gonna have to start docking your pay until you call me Martin," he joked, and I knew he would never do such a thing. Both agents appeared to be in very good moods from what I could tell. She pulled off her mittens and placed them on the small table before reaching down to pick up two grocery bags.

"Enough flirting," she purred with a grin and pushed him from behind into the kitchen. "The ice-cream will melt."

I left soon after, with a nod to Mr. Fitzgerald as he sat at his modest kitchen table, sharing a comfortable brunch with Samantha. He acknowledged me and that was the last time I saw Samantha until mid-February.

I came late in the afternoon, after having been kept at home by my youngest son who acquired a sudden fever. Mr. Fitzgerald hadn't minded and said I could come in whenever was a good time for me. He even suggested taking the day off if I needed to. Of course, that wasn't an option. Although my family is quite comfortable, every little bit helps. By 4 PM, I was on my way to his apartment.

Not being sure whether he too had the day off, I knocked. There was a voice that called, inviting me in. I stepped inside almost hesitantly, not accustomed to arriving in the afternoon. They both were sitting on his sofa, watching what looked like a typical romantic comedy from years ago. She was reclining against him, her legs, clad in old jeans, were stretched along the length of the sofa. Her bare feet dangled over the edge. He too was dressed casually; in a similar fashion to her that made it obvious they had the entire day off. I'm not sure why the scene struck me as so strange. Maybe because Mr. Fitzgerald had never had any other women around when I was over. I'm not sure. The scene sticks out in my memory because of the contentment on his face, with her snuggled up to his side.

After that day, I no longer saw her. Slowly her things began disappearing from his apartment. First it was the shoes and the suits. It caught me off guard the first week I noticed that his shoe rack only displayed men's shoes. I felt a twinge of sadness. Mr. Fitzgerald seemed like the kind of man women would swoon for: fit, rich, and attractive. After the shoes and suits, it was the toiletries. I found a bottle of specialty conditioner in the trash along with a toothbrush and some hair-ties. I took the conditioner - it was practically full. Finally, by July, it was the old tabloid magazines, hiding between issues of the New Yorker and Sports Illustrated, and then the photographs. I knew Mr. Fitzgerald never read those entertainment magazines, but she had. When I was dusting I noticed the photograph was gone. He had a single photograph of them. I don't know where it was taken, or who took it. They looked as happy as can be expected for two obviously careful and closed people. I later found it in the kitchen trash, sitting on the top, almost begging to be saved from the disposal. I didn't take that. It went to the dump along with all the burrito wrappers and decomposing leftovers.

It took him a while to completely remove everything.

I wondered if it had anything to do with that pregnancy test I found just before her shoes disappeared. I had given into temptation and looked at the results. My sister has been trying to get pregnant for over a year so I am familiar with all the brands and how to read them. I wondered if the results had been their undoing. I tossed the test into the trash with a feeling of sadness for them, wondering whether the results had been a blessing or a curse. It was amazing how such a small object can change the entire outcome of a person's life... Or not change it at all.

Since then, Mr. Fitzgerald's apartment became easier to clean. Without her around, he made less mess. I've seen many men live solitary existences and he was no exception.

A few weeks ago, before I took a trip back home, I noticed his apartment becoming messier. More take-out boxes, more beer bottles. I wondered first if she had come back, but I had never seen beer bottles when she was around. Only wine-coolers. I also thought that maybe Mr. Fitzgerald had a new friend or two but something about the mess made me doubt that as well. He looked ragged and tired the last time I saw before my trip at the beginning of this March. I knew it was not just a woman-problem. He wandered almost aimlessly into the kitchen in the morning before slumping down on his sofa and turning on a golf game. And he made very little conversation which was rare for a man who usually seemed so interested in my life before. Often lonely single men of a friendly nature appreciate a little conversation. But, once again, it wasn't any of my business.

After I came back from seeing my sister, I called Mr. Fitzgerald to arrange to come in the next Sunday. He declined, but assured I would be paid anyway. The idea struck me as odd but sometimes people needed space, and I definitely could use the relaxation time. He told me a similar thing for the next 3 weeks. I received my paycheck in the mail, covering a month's worth of days off. The only other time that had happened was in September when he was shot in the line of duty and rarely at home. Now it was almost April.

On the Friday before the 4th Sunday, I received a call from Samantha. She explained briefly how she looked up my number in the phonebook. I knew she hadn't. Being an FBI agent, she didn't need to. She didn't say much except that Martin had gone away and his apartment could use some cleaning before he returned. She was polite but I could tell by her voice that she was incredibly uncomfortable with the situation. I assured her I would go in. She thanked me and uttered a strained goodbye.

By the sound of the resigned sigh as she hung up, I don't expect I will ever see her again.

End.

Author's Notes: As much as I can't stand "OMG! Sam is pregnant!" fics, this one kind of came out that way. I was originally not going to give the answer, I'm not sure the actual paragraph ended up as I had intended. The test was negative. Sam was not pregnant. This is all from Tina's POV, remember, so she wouldn't have known Sam never wanted to get pregnant and all she knows is that it could have been a catalyst to their break-up. I obviously don't believe any such thing would have been the reason (and I think we all can figure out the real reason), but this is Tina's theory.