Ahem. Right.
Jun. 6th, 2004 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemThis'd be Jack Bauer/Christian (Moulin Rouge)
Notes: For the seventh round of The Pairing List that Ate Fandom over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ithurtsmybrain. Post-season one Jack and post-movie Christian. Spoilers for those, and you can probably guess what they are.
Set in present day LA. I was perfectly happy to ignore differences in time period.
No, there isn't any singing.
Jack checked his watch for what must have been the dozenth time, the warm press of the air like an unseen spectator constantly breathing down his neck. He sat as far from the inquisitive-looking psychologist as possible, arms crossed. The thought occurred to him that his watch-glancing might be some sort of giveaway, a telltale sign, so he resisted the temptation to stare away the remaining two minutes, instead glaring at the atrocious carpet pattern, some offensive combination of brown and even uglier brown.
Someone to his left struggled to unfold a chair of the cheap metal variety typically used at grade school events, and without an ounce of effort Jack shifted his glare to the offender.
The man was shabbily dressed and unkempt, the smell of some undoubtedly alcoholic substance mingled with the scent of smoke, streets, and days gone without showering wafting off him. His eyes, as distant as Jack’s were focused, stared in the direction of the chair as he continued to fumble with it. At long last, it clattered open and he took a seat, studying his worn shoes.
Jack leaned back, wishing the pathetic mourner’s circle were a square. That way he’d at least have been afforded the opportunity to sit in the corner. He glanced to his left, just for a chance to look away from his right, and was startled to meet the red-rimmed eyes of a man still sniffling in the wake of a bout of tears. Jack quickly looked away, up at a ceiling adorned with flickering neon lights that stung his eyes. They must have.
He wondered if that was how other people grieved, if there was something he should have been doing that he wasn’t. If it was public, if he’d allowed his voice to break or choked on…tears or bile or the overwhelming sense of shame when he’d resigned, would that have made it real? Genuine?
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t deal with sympathy any more than he could deal with the people seated around him, or anything in his life that didn’t involve a gun and a clear objective. He had the vases full of flowers dead from lack of water to prove it.
“Jack.”
The sound snapped his gaze away from the ceiling to the man addressing him, the “session leader,” who looked at him expectantly, professionally.
“Jack, do you think you’re prepared to share this week? I know we spoke--”
His eyes found the neon lights of the ceiling again. “Pass.” He knew what it was to sit with an interrogation lamp in your eyes, to alternate between the bland façade—no matter the expression, it was always bland, masking something—of the interrogator and blinding light. Blink and they had you. It was like this.
“This isn’t a game show.” The man’s voice was soft, already apologizing for the reproach. Jack tilted his chair back and thought of his sister and her recommendation that he “find some way to deal with this instead of pushing it away like everything else.” Now here he was and all he’d gained was something else he couldn’t find a way to deal with.
“Her name was Satine.” The man on his right was talking, introducing his dead as though a name could possibly mean anything to any of them. Like he expected everyone to lean forward, eager for more, upon hearing it. He probably thought she was special because she was dead.
Jack fought the urge to yawn.
“She was a courtesan. The most beautiful courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. To me, the most beautiful woman in the world. When she sang—“ He gave a sad, lovelorn smile and surveyed all their faces, seeking out eye contact with the desperation of an attention-starved child “--her voice was like pure, golden sunshine on a frost-covered field, like…”
Jack doubted many heads turned when he walked out of the room.
The parking lot wasn’t much better than that room; their cars huddled together, alone in the fading sunlight. Since he lacked an excuse for sunglasses, Jack was eager for the car and its tinted windows. Then he’d have home and a drawer full of searingly real photographs to focus on not thinking about.
He clicked the locks open, still not allowing himself the sigh of relief—that or a scream—he was dying to let out.
“Jack?”
It was a whisper, some sound carried on the dying wind, a memory that had no business here. He ignored it.
“I’m sorry.” This time the voice was accompanied by a slight, hesitant touch to the shoulder. The stranger was slammed up against the car, Jack’s arm at his throat, before he had a chance to utter another word.
Breathing heavily—more heavily than he should have been, or maybe it was just that his breath was the only sound in the empty parking lot—Jack looked the man over. It took him only a moment to recognize the man from the group, the man who’d been speaking as he’d left. It took another moment for him to falter backwards, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep them from trembling.
“Yeah,” he gasped out, nodding unnecessarily, somehow unwilling to stop moving. “Yeah, that’s me. What the hell do you want?”
Still pressed against the car, the other man stared wide-eyed at Jack. “I thought something might be wrong.” His voice was soft, English, and shocked. But not scared. Jack snorted derisively, swinging the car door open. “My wife’s dead. That’s what’s wrong. Now go back inside.”
“Tell me about her.” He sounded spellbound, not by anything Jack had said, or done, even, but by the words themselves. He was clambering to piece something together, to make sense of whatever story Jack had mercifully walked out on. Jack could imagine him imagining Teri, weaving some tragic tale of Jack’s One True Love brutally torn from his arms. He felt the briefest twinge of envy, stifled it with a sneer. “Her name was Teri. Make the rest up yourself.” He climbed in the car, hand clenched around the keys, and swung the door shut.
Except he didn’t. The other man’s slight frame blocked the door. He spoke hastily, word after word pouring out. Jack only caught about half of them; he doubted the other man heard any. Just a tide of empty phrases and emphatic clichés designed to…give meaning? Take it away?
“There was a lovely, grand funeral, and everyone from the Moulin Rouge was there, everyone.” The man glanced away abruptly, looking faintly disturbed, then clapped a hand to his head. Jack could only stare as he scrambled to find something—his hat, probably, which must have fallen off over the course of the…scuffle. Unable to find it, the man returned his dazed blue eyes to Jack and, running his fingers through his disheveled hair, continued. “It was lovely—but I said that, did I not?--everyone wore the most extravagant costumes. It was her final performance,” his voice dropped to a whisper (it didn’t break, because then what Jack was feeling would have to had borne a vague resemblance to pity), “for all those who loved her.”
“Around here, we wear black to funerals.” It was dry and skeptical, but muttered. He couldn’t quite mute the tone, so he settled for the volume.
The other man looked at him—tore his eyes from some distant plane--and stared, openly, as though searching for some sort of answer in Jack’s scowl. “Satine was…Satine.”
“I didn’t go to Teri’s funeral.” It was a lie, hoarse and low, as the other man’s had been soft and distant. He’d been there, suit, tie, dark glasses and all. He’d kept looking for Kim, trying to slip his hand around hers since he knew she was old enough not to cry, not to allow him to hug her, even if it was he who needed it.
“Her room’s still there.”
“I donated everything,” Jack offered quickly, cutting him off. “I tore up—I burnt—pictures…” His voice cracked, maybe, he couldn’t tell because the other man had picked up the thread.
“I still remember her song, her smile, the moon the night we met…”
“Her parents were sorry for me. Me and Kim. They cooked for us for four nights…” The other man was inching forward with each word, each breath, every single passionate lie. And, to his surprise, Jack felt himself moving as well.
“She died in a terrible accident. It was…a shooting.” He swallowed the last word, brushing up against Jack as they suddenly—was it suddenly?—found themselves face-to-face.
“Car crash,” Jack said shortly, head swimming in the heat, the other man’s short breaths buffeting him in a rhythm echoing that of his pounding heart. They stood for a moment, neither moving. Jack’s hands shook, the other man looked about to collapse, but it was the world teetering, not them. Then abruptly, violently, Jack grabbed the other man’s arms, locking them to his sides.
The kiss was brief; Jack could feel the other man struggling, could feel himself struggle, felt the heat burning on his back and the man’s beard scratching his face. He took a step back even before he broke it, so there was a moment that seemed to stretch, where they were locked yet not, wrenched apart.
“She died in my arms,” the other man whispered, his eyes shadowed now by the dark, a frown creasing his features.
Jack swallowed, wondering at the unfamiliar taste in his mouth. “She died in mine.”
Notes: For the seventh round of The Pairing List that Ate Fandom over at
ithurtsmybrain. Post-season one Jack and post-movie Christian. Spoilers for those, and you can probably guess what they are.Set in present day LA. I was perfectly happy to ignore differences in time period.
No, there isn't any singing.
Jack checked his watch for what must have been the dozenth time, the warm press of the air like an unseen spectator constantly breathing down his neck. He sat as far from the inquisitive-looking psychologist as possible, arms crossed. The thought occurred to him that his watch-glancing might be some sort of giveaway, a telltale sign, so he resisted the temptation to stare away the remaining two minutes, instead glaring at the atrocious carpet pattern, some offensive combination of brown and even uglier brown.
Someone to his left struggled to unfold a chair of the cheap metal variety typically used at grade school events, and without an ounce of effort Jack shifted his glare to the offender.
The man was shabbily dressed and unkempt, the smell of some undoubtedly alcoholic substance mingled with the scent of smoke, streets, and days gone without showering wafting off him. His eyes, as distant as Jack’s were focused, stared in the direction of the chair as he continued to fumble with it. At long last, it clattered open and he took a seat, studying his worn shoes.
Jack leaned back, wishing the pathetic mourner’s circle were a square. That way he’d at least have been afforded the opportunity to sit in the corner. He glanced to his left, just for a chance to look away from his right, and was startled to meet the red-rimmed eyes of a man still sniffling in the wake of a bout of tears. Jack quickly looked away, up at a ceiling adorned with flickering neon lights that stung his eyes. They must have.
He wondered if that was how other people grieved, if there was something he should have been doing that he wasn’t. If it was public, if he’d allowed his voice to break or choked on…tears or bile or the overwhelming sense of shame when he’d resigned, would that have made it real? Genuine?
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t deal with sympathy any more than he could deal with the people seated around him, or anything in his life that didn’t involve a gun and a clear objective. He had the vases full of flowers dead from lack of water to prove it.
“Jack.”
The sound snapped his gaze away from the ceiling to the man addressing him, the “session leader,” who looked at him expectantly, professionally.
“Jack, do you think you’re prepared to share this week? I know we spoke--”
His eyes found the neon lights of the ceiling again. “Pass.” He knew what it was to sit with an interrogation lamp in your eyes, to alternate between the bland façade—no matter the expression, it was always bland, masking something—of the interrogator and blinding light. Blink and they had you. It was like this.
“This isn’t a game show.” The man’s voice was soft, already apologizing for the reproach. Jack tilted his chair back and thought of his sister and her recommendation that he “find some way to deal with this instead of pushing it away like everything else.” Now here he was and all he’d gained was something else he couldn’t find a way to deal with.
“Her name was Satine.” The man on his right was talking, introducing his dead as though a name could possibly mean anything to any of them. Like he expected everyone to lean forward, eager for more, upon hearing it. He probably thought she was special because she was dead.
Jack fought the urge to yawn.
“She was a courtesan. The most beautiful courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. To me, the most beautiful woman in the world. When she sang—“ He gave a sad, lovelorn smile and surveyed all their faces, seeking out eye contact with the desperation of an attention-starved child “--her voice was like pure, golden sunshine on a frost-covered field, like…”
Jack doubted many heads turned when he walked out of the room.
The parking lot wasn’t much better than that room; their cars huddled together, alone in the fading sunlight. Since he lacked an excuse for sunglasses, Jack was eager for the car and its tinted windows. Then he’d have home and a drawer full of searingly real photographs to focus on not thinking about.
He clicked the locks open, still not allowing himself the sigh of relief—that or a scream—he was dying to let out.
“Jack?”
It was a whisper, some sound carried on the dying wind, a memory that had no business here. He ignored it.
“I’m sorry.” This time the voice was accompanied by a slight, hesitant touch to the shoulder. The stranger was slammed up against the car, Jack’s arm at his throat, before he had a chance to utter another word.
Breathing heavily—more heavily than he should have been, or maybe it was just that his breath was the only sound in the empty parking lot—Jack looked the man over. It took him only a moment to recognize the man from the group, the man who’d been speaking as he’d left. It took another moment for him to falter backwards, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep them from trembling.
“Yeah,” he gasped out, nodding unnecessarily, somehow unwilling to stop moving. “Yeah, that’s me. What the hell do you want?”
Still pressed against the car, the other man stared wide-eyed at Jack. “I thought something might be wrong.” His voice was soft, English, and shocked. But not scared. Jack snorted derisively, swinging the car door open. “My wife’s dead. That’s what’s wrong. Now go back inside.”
“Tell me about her.” He sounded spellbound, not by anything Jack had said, or done, even, but by the words themselves. He was clambering to piece something together, to make sense of whatever story Jack had mercifully walked out on. Jack could imagine him imagining Teri, weaving some tragic tale of Jack’s One True Love brutally torn from his arms. He felt the briefest twinge of envy, stifled it with a sneer. “Her name was Teri. Make the rest up yourself.” He climbed in the car, hand clenched around the keys, and swung the door shut.
Except he didn’t. The other man’s slight frame blocked the door. He spoke hastily, word after word pouring out. Jack only caught about half of them; he doubted the other man heard any. Just a tide of empty phrases and emphatic clichés designed to…give meaning? Take it away?
“There was a lovely, grand funeral, and everyone from the Moulin Rouge was there, everyone.” The man glanced away abruptly, looking faintly disturbed, then clapped a hand to his head. Jack could only stare as he scrambled to find something—his hat, probably, which must have fallen off over the course of the…scuffle. Unable to find it, the man returned his dazed blue eyes to Jack and, running his fingers through his disheveled hair, continued. “It was lovely—but I said that, did I not?--everyone wore the most extravagant costumes. It was her final performance,” his voice dropped to a whisper (it didn’t break, because then what Jack was feeling would have to had borne a vague resemblance to pity), “for all those who loved her.”
“Around here, we wear black to funerals.” It was dry and skeptical, but muttered. He couldn’t quite mute the tone, so he settled for the volume.
The other man looked at him—tore his eyes from some distant plane--and stared, openly, as though searching for some sort of answer in Jack’s scowl. “Satine was…Satine.”
“I didn’t go to Teri’s funeral.” It was a lie, hoarse and low, as the other man’s had been soft and distant. He’d been there, suit, tie, dark glasses and all. He’d kept looking for Kim, trying to slip his hand around hers since he knew she was old enough not to cry, not to allow him to hug her, even if it was he who needed it.
“Her room’s still there.”
“I donated everything,” Jack offered quickly, cutting him off. “I tore up—I burnt—pictures…” His voice cracked, maybe, he couldn’t tell because the other man had picked up the thread.
“I still remember her song, her smile, the moon the night we met…”
“Her parents were sorry for me. Me and Kim. They cooked for us for four nights…” The other man was inching forward with each word, each breath, every single passionate lie. And, to his surprise, Jack felt himself moving as well.
“She died in a terrible accident. It was…a shooting.” He swallowed the last word, brushing up against Jack as they suddenly—was it suddenly?—found themselves face-to-face.
“Car crash,” Jack said shortly, head swimming in the heat, the other man’s short breaths buffeting him in a rhythm echoing that of his pounding heart. They stood for a moment, neither moving. Jack’s hands shook, the other man looked about to collapse, but it was the world teetering, not them. Then abruptly, violently, Jack grabbed the other man’s arms, locking them to his sides.
The kiss was brief; Jack could feel the other man struggling, could feel himself struggle, felt the heat burning on his back and the man’s beard scratching his face. He took a step back even before he broke it, so there was a moment that seemed to stretch, where they were locked yet not, wrenched apart.
“She died in my arms,” the other man whispered, his eyes shadowed now by the dark, a frown creasing his features.
Jack swallowed, wondering at the unfamiliar taste in his mouth. “She died in mine.”
no subject
Date: 2004-06-06 05:07 pm (UTC)I love how you dealt with Teri's death and the aftermath though I'm not sure why Jack kissed him.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-06 05:18 pm (UTC)Yes. I tried to make that as...not awkward...as possible, but it was difficult to manage. It is a pairing list, so I had to do something. I was kind of going for a pressure build up and some sort of release, if you know what I mean.
Thanks for the great feedback, and it hurts my brain too.