So, the really violent 24 fic
Nov. 10th, 2003 07:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemSpoilers for season 3. Uh...gratuitous violence, although that's par for the course with Jack. I really don't know how this happened, except that I must have a lot of bottled up rage or something.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Tony strides quickly across the floor, brandishing some sort of leftover file. "Chase is your partner. You can’t just order him back here because you think he’s in the way. And I didn’t have any idea what you were doing because you refused to wear a transmitter!" He flings the file at Jack's chest and papers flutter to the ground with alien delicacy. Jack’s gaze doesn’t even shift as he sneers at Tony's indignation.
"You're not a field agent. I don't expect you to understand." He wants desperately to press his gun into Tony’s hand, see him threaten people with that for a change, instead of these roundabout slips of paper and memos Division uses to pad the directness of bullets.
Tony opens his mouth, shuts it again. He grabs at Jack's arm and hisses in his ear, "I think we need to talk."
Jack shrugs and barks a laugh. "Yeah. You would want to talk." He wonders at all the people circling around them, kids at a fight on the playground. Drawn from their work in an instant, itching for a fight. Never mind that there are people to save.
Christ, he's tired of saving people. They're never the people who matter, not to him. But now—too late—he knows it's not about that and it makes him feel a sort of fierce joy.
The job is about breaking people.
They didn't stop his heart, they fucking tore it out and now they expect him to be grateful for it. As though any salary or accolade can make up for it. Hell, the money barely stretches far enough to cover his newfound dope habit.
He smells blood now, even when there's no one bleeding. Falls asleep steeped in its stench. All thanks to this job.
So he smiles at Tony, a horrible, reckless smile, he knows. Winks and allows himself to be pulled out of the room, into one CTU's dark hallways where people are shot and legs are broken so the nice little seal on the main floor is never stained with blood.
"What's wrong?" Tony: soft, serious, deadly earnest. As soon as he can feel the other man's grip on his arm slacken, Jack breaks loose, shudders back a couple steps.
"Wrong? You tell me." He wonders if his eyes flash as he says this, if they flash the same way they do when he needs a hit. "We've got less than 2 hours to take care of this, Tony, and I know I'm not the one running things, but wasting time talking doesn't strike me as productive."
"Jack." His voice is always so low and calm and reasonable that Jack just wants to tear it apart, hear Tony say something high and desperate. Hear him plead and grovel at the point of a gun.
"Tony," he snaps, runs his hand through his hair with barely-contained violence.
"I need you to do your job," Tony starts to move closer, to fix his eyes on him, as though there's a way to make his words even more sickeningly sincere.
Jack steps forward to meet him, takes him by the shoulders and pins him up against the wall. "I am," he breathes in Tony's ear, stubble scratching tiny pinpricks over Tony’s face. "I know what this job is. I know it better than you ever will."
Tony steps away, still calm, contained. "I don't have time for this. You know Salazar. You're the only one who can do this, Jack. We need you."
Jack nods knowingly. He's heard this all before, at various stages in his life. Recruitment. Retirement. Reinstatement. "What you mean is you need someone else to do it for you. Someone without anything to lose." He hesitates for a moment, then Tony's eyes, glimmering with pity, catch his own. Snarling at the presumptuousness of the gaze, Jack lunges forward, slams Tony back against the wall.
Control slipping away, he kisses Tony like he'd throttle someone in the interrogation room, the hint of calculation lost, somewhere, rage boiling over. It's not cold, not at all. It's heat, all heat and it freezes Tony there, up against unalterable concrete.
Time grinds to a halt.
Jack pulls away a fraction of an inch, still insinuating himself in Tony's face, not even trying to read the other man, not looking for any answers. Jack has all the answers he can take, tries to wash them away in the blood of each new suspect, drown them out in the screams. "I don't care what you think." He notices Tony's caressing the ring on his hand, distantly recalls having done the same thing once. "You think you're safe here." He laughs, shakes his head in one brutal motion. "You'll lose her. She might as well be dead already." He releases Tony, staggers away like he's the one who's been attacked.
He closes his eyes and, thinking of Teri, of the way Chase said, "It's you, Jack," he says, "Soon it's only going to be the two of us left, and this office sure as hell isn't going to stop you from bleeding as much as I have."
“Is that a threat?” Tony asks, and maybe his voice quavers for an instant. Jack can’t tell.
“No. It’s a fact.”
"What the hell were you thinking?" Tony strides quickly across the floor, brandishing some sort of leftover file. "Chase is your partner. You can’t just order him back here because you think he’s in the way. And I didn’t have any idea what you were doing because you refused to wear a transmitter!" He flings the file at Jack's chest and papers flutter to the ground with alien delicacy. Jack’s gaze doesn’t even shift as he sneers at Tony's indignation.
"You're not a field agent. I don't expect you to understand." He wants desperately to press his gun into Tony’s hand, see him threaten people with that for a change, instead of these roundabout slips of paper and memos Division uses to pad the directness of bullets.
Tony opens his mouth, shuts it again. He grabs at Jack's arm and hisses in his ear, "I think we need to talk."
Jack shrugs and barks a laugh. "Yeah. You would want to talk." He wonders at all the people circling around them, kids at a fight on the playground. Drawn from their work in an instant, itching for a fight. Never mind that there are people to save.
Christ, he's tired of saving people. They're never the people who matter, not to him. But now—too late—he knows it's not about that and it makes him feel a sort of fierce joy.
The job is about breaking people.
They didn't stop his heart, they fucking tore it out and now they expect him to be grateful for it. As though any salary or accolade can make up for it. Hell, the money barely stretches far enough to cover his newfound dope habit.
He smells blood now, even when there's no one bleeding. Falls asleep steeped in its stench. All thanks to this job.
So he smiles at Tony, a horrible, reckless smile, he knows. Winks and allows himself to be pulled out of the room, into one CTU's dark hallways where people are shot and legs are broken so the nice little seal on the main floor is never stained with blood.
"What's wrong?" Tony: soft, serious, deadly earnest. As soon as he can feel the other man's grip on his arm slacken, Jack breaks loose, shudders back a couple steps.
"Wrong? You tell me." He wonders if his eyes flash as he says this, if they flash the same way they do when he needs a hit. "We've got less than 2 hours to take care of this, Tony, and I know I'm not the one running things, but wasting time talking doesn't strike me as productive."
"Jack." His voice is always so low and calm and reasonable that Jack just wants to tear it apart, hear Tony say something high and desperate. Hear him plead and grovel at the point of a gun.
"Tony," he snaps, runs his hand through his hair with barely-contained violence.
"I need you to do your job," Tony starts to move closer, to fix his eyes on him, as though there's a way to make his words even more sickeningly sincere.
Jack steps forward to meet him, takes him by the shoulders and pins him up against the wall. "I am," he breathes in Tony's ear, stubble scratching tiny pinpricks over Tony’s face. "I know what this job is. I know it better than you ever will."
Tony steps away, still calm, contained. "I don't have time for this. You know Salazar. You're the only one who can do this, Jack. We need you."
Jack nods knowingly. He's heard this all before, at various stages in his life. Recruitment. Retirement. Reinstatement. "What you mean is you need someone else to do it for you. Someone without anything to lose." He hesitates for a moment, then Tony's eyes, glimmering with pity, catch his own. Snarling at the presumptuousness of the gaze, Jack lunges forward, slams Tony back against the wall.
Control slipping away, he kisses Tony like he'd throttle someone in the interrogation room, the hint of calculation lost, somewhere, rage boiling over. It's not cold, not at all. It's heat, all heat and it freezes Tony there, up against unalterable concrete.
Time grinds to a halt.
Jack pulls away a fraction of an inch, still insinuating himself in Tony's face, not even trying to read the other man, not looking for any answers. Jack has all the answers he can take, tries to wash them away in the blood of each new suspect, drown them out in the screams. "I don't care what you think." He notices Tony's caressing the ring on his hand, distantly recalls having done the same thing once. "You think you're safe here." He laughs, shakes his head in one brutal motion. "You'll lose her. She might as well be dead already." He releases Tony, staggers away like he's the one who's been attacked.
He closes his eyes and, thinking of Teri, of the way Chase said, "It's you, Jack," he says, "Soon it's only going to be the two of us left, and this office sure as hell isn't going to stop you from bleeding as much as I have."
“Is that a threat?” Tony asks, and maybe his voice quavers for an instant. Jack can’t tell.
“No. It’s a fact.”
