DISCLAIMER: Jack Bauer, Ryan Chappelle and the events on 24 do not belong to me. Obviously. They belong to FOX and the great minds which are bringing us this kick-ass season of 24. I bow down and worship you, for the way you all so expertly screw with my mind.

SPOILER WARNING: In case you somehow missed the synopsis, this has bigass spoilers for tonight's (04/17/04) episode, Day Three: 6:00am-7:00am. If you haven't seen the show, I'd recommend not reading this as it would so spoil the suspense of the ep.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi all, thisn't my first piece of fanfic, but it's my first in 24 fandom. Love the show, have been a regular watcher for the last couple seasons but never had any fic ideas until tonight, when I just felt inspired to do this little vignette. WARNING for everyone: this ficlet contains some swearing, so consider yourself warned.

The only thing he can think at this moment is that he has to be dreaming.

Of course he knows he's not dreaming, that he's awake.  No dream would be this real. He wouldn't hear the sound of his feet on the gravel of the train yard this clearly, feel the weight and the solid chill of the gun in his hand.

But part of him won't accept it. There's no fucking way he's pointing a gun to Ryan Chappelle's head, execution-style.

He has to be dreaming.

Was it only a couple hours ago Chappelle was giving him the third degree about his...habit? That Chappelle was threatening to take him off the team, and he'd been thinking that Chappelle was such a prick, the biggest dickhead he'd ever worked with, because right then there was no way he was leaving CTU, in the middle of a major operation?

He'd actually thought to himself, "I wish he'd just fuck off and leave us alone to do our jobs. Just disappear."

And now he's going to make Chappelle disappear.  Permanently. But there's something in him that's still trying to find some way out. Some way they can fake it, some way to get out of doing this. Because only a few hours after thinking he'd like to wring Chappelle's fucking neck, he's stalling with his finger on the trigger.

He realizes he's been thinking of Chappelle as just "Ryan", for almost the last hour. He always called Ryan by his first name to his face, but usually used "Chappelle" in his mind, or when talking to the others at CTU, the name usually thought of or said with the kind of tone that places "that asshole" before the name.

But somehow he can't think of that now. Not when he's seen that look in Ryan's eyes, when they heard the fateful words over the radio. "He's not here." When both of them knew what was had to be done.

He's seen that fear in a lot of people's eyes over the years, but it's never made him feel ill, like it did at that moment. Seriously, like he was literally going to puke. Just seeing the look on Ryan's face, that knowledge that he was walking toward his own death, that there was no way out, except in oblivion...

He's seen it before. But it's always been one of the bad guys. And in a small, small way, he's enjoyed seeing that look. Usually because the bad guys deserved it.

This isn't the first time he's had to kill an innocent either. He's done that too. Too often, in fact. But the explanation that it was all for the greater good was usually enough, even when he woke up at night, seeing their faces in front of him, the sound of their voices dying away as he woke, sometimes years later. He would never tell anyone, but that was one reason it wasn't hard for him to get hooked, to fool the Salazars. Though he knew what the stuff did to a person, though he told himself it was only for the mission. But deep down he also knew, every time after the first time he shot up, that it would also help quiet the voices in his dreams.

Will Chappelle be there, with the others, tonight? If there is a tonight?

Something keeps holding him back. He knows too much about the target, even though he's realized he doesn't know Ryan at all. He'd always assumed Ryan was married, though he's just realized he never even looked for a wedding ring. But even though the only personal things he knows is what Ryan just told him, it was enough. Too much. Enough to make him human, not just "that asshole from Division". No family, except one brother he never talks to, no friends except work, but really, how "friendly" can they be? Did Ryan ever go to a colleague's wedding? Does he have a regular poker night with a couple of the guys at Division? Somehow that doesn't jive with his image of Chappelle, but then nothing is at the moment.

Time is ticking away. He can't stall--shouldn't stall. There's nothing anyone can do now. The only thing he can do is give Chappelle a quick end. Something in Ryan's head has to be fighting this, screaming that this isn't the end, that little voice bent on self-preservation at whatever cost, that refuses believe this is the end, because it can't imagine just turning off, the nothingness after the gunshot. He knows this, because he's heard the voice himself, behind whatever part of his mind was planning how to escape from every sticky situation he's even been in. Felt that desperation, that there has to be some way out.

But he has no time, no fucking time; right now; he has to do this now, put Ryan out of what must be abject misery.

"God forgive me," he says, hearing his own voice as if from a distance, and then the sound of the gunshot shatters the dream.

The only thing he can think at this moment is that he has to be dreaming.

Everything is telling him that this isn't a dream: Bauer's footsteps as he walks behind him, the jagged edges of the stones digging into his knees, the cold feeling that still lingers where he put Bauer's gun to his own temple, the tear slipping down his cheek. It's all far too real to be a dream; but there's still that little voice in his head, the one that won't give up, that refuses to believe this is actually happening. The voice telling him to knock Bauer down and run, for fuck's sake.

He's not sure he could run, even if he gave into the voice's urgings. As soon as he'd heard his death-knell--Edmunds' voice saying, "He's not here"--his knees had felt watery, and he'd been unsure if he'd even be able to get out of the chopper, or to stand when he did get out. The fact that he had to tell Bauer that should have rankled, he shouldn't have been able to say it, with his stubborn pride, but whatever would have previously refused help died inside him when he knew there was no more time left.

He's always disliked Jack. Jack's always been too much of a maverick for his taste. Most people in this line of business are, and he can handle that, but Jack tends to work so far off-piece that sometimes he has to wonder if Bauer sees himself as the only agent at CTU. He's even ordered Bauer killed a few times, but he's always had his reasons. For fuck's sake, Jack had broken a fucking drug lord and murderer out of prison a few hours ago, and only two other people had known it was a setup! What the hell was he supposed to have thought?

Of course he hadn't believed Jack when he'd come in and said Saunders wanted him dead, that the President of the fucking United States had authorized it. Who could have believed that? Who wouldn't have thought this was some sort of covert op, some big mind-fuck with Machiavellian motives, no matter how terrified he got in the process?

But now he really, really wishes that Bauer had just been using him as a pawn.

And Bauer hadn't been the cocksure rogue agent he usually was. Bauer had yelled at him when he needed it, been calm and comforting when he needed that too. Jack's hand had been steady and firm on his arm when he'd crawled out of the helicopter, trying to resist the urge to bolt, when he could no longer hide the desperate terror that had gripped him.

God, he doesn't want to die. No one ever does. At this moment that's the only thing going through his head, There must be some other way, God please, some way out of this, I just need more time...

There's no way he could have said goodbyes in the time given him; even with so few people to say goodbye to. He's never realized until this moment how much of his job is his life; not even when Victoria had said so, in their divorce papers. He's just gone on, going through each day, concentrating on work, doing everything else by routine, not even noticing the years going by, or the fact that he's still wearing his wedding band. The band is digging into his finger now as he clenches his fists to keep them from trembling, a reminder of someone he should call, but what the hell would he say? She'd never talk to him, she'd think it was some cheap trick. She'd hang up, before he got to say goodbye to her or the kids he hadn't seen in years, who hadn't made contact with him, and vice versa.

Who else would he say goodbye to? No real friends outside work, precious few at work. Most of his co-workers probably see him the same as Edmunds does, that prick who just has to come in and fuck everything up.

How the hell did it end up like this? Was it only forty-five minutes ago he'd been following that money trail, absorbed by the numbers, following the beauty of the logic which unrolled each step of the path leading back to Saunders? Is that why Sanders wants him dead? Because he's too close? Is he going to die for sitting behind a desk every day?

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to silence the voice telling him to run, the voice screaming in frantic desperation that this can not be all, that there has to be an escape somewhere, anywhere.

But if he runs, he'll never stop running. He'll never stop running, because the thing chasing him will be in his own head, in the thoughts that will torture him, that he's left millions die just to save his own worthless neck. The voice telling him to live for fuck's sake, the one that wouldn't let him pull the trigger, wouldn't let him send himself into whatever oblivion waited him by his own hand, will never be loud enough to drown out the voices of those he murdered.

He opens his eyes again, notices the sun is getting higher in the sky. In a couple minutes it will be shining on his face, but he knows he'll never feel his warmth. Was it this time yesterday morning that he was going into work, leaving dishes in the sink, dishes that will never be washed, driving his car which will never take him home again? Was it just twenty-four hours ago that he was cursing at the rush-hour traffic heading into the city, feeling the morning sun on his face, but not noticing it at all; like he hadn't noticed anything, any of the things he now wished he could feel, see, one last time?

Oh God, he doesn't want to die, but there's no way out, he's completely trapped, there's no more fucking time...

"God forgive me," he hears Jack say quietly behind him.

I don't know about God, Jack, but I forgive you, he thinks, I forg--

It takes Jack a couple minutes to find the right key, but a quick comparison of manufacturers between the deadbolt and the keys on Chappelle's keyring narrows it down to two keys. The second is the right one, the bolt sliding home easily, the front door of Chappelle's ranch house emitting a little puff of cool air as the vapour barrier lets go of the doorjamb. Jack pushes the door open, then steps into the cool dimness of the front hall, shoving Chappelle's keys back into his pocket for the time being.

He'd found Chappelle's keys and wallet in the helicopter after handing the body over to Saunders' henchmen. The body, his; body; the two phrases alternate in Jack's mind, and he's unsure which to use. His training demands the first. Detatchment, objectivity, no matter how recently the person has looked him in the eyes or spoke, the now-immobile amalgom of flesh and bones must cease to be human, must be something instead of someone. Perhaps that was what would have come to him naturally, had he been forced to kill Ryan in some kind of conflict, in self-defence. Considering he hardly had a chance to see Chappelle's face after shooting him, it should have been easier to look at the body and not think of it as Ryan.

But despite his training, it's the second which is recurring most often in his own thoughts. In those last twenty minutes he learned more about Ryan Chappelle than he'd known in all the years they had worked together; he'd seen the man laid bare, stripped down to his deepest thoughts and fears in those minutes before a single shot had ended them. Those things aren't easy to erase from his mind, particularly now that the crisis is contained, now that he has a moment to tie up loose ends, no one to hunt down. The second option is why he's here.

Jack closes the front door behind him, letting the deathly silence envelop him like a blanket. The security system next to the door is silent; he arranged for the security company to turn it off, as no one other than Ryan himself knew the code. The only sound is the steady hum of the air conditioner. Something he'll have to remember before he leaves, one of the loose ends.

That's the excuse he gave Tony and Chappelle's colleagues at Division. He had Chappelle's keys, after all, he might as well do some of the little things that need to be done. After those at CTU had explained Ryan's death, Division had looked up Chappelle's personnel record, and found that some of the next-of-kin data was outdated. The only family members listed were an ex-wife and three children, but the address given was five years old, and the person who'd answered the phone at the number given hadn't known where to get in touch with Victoria Hays. They could have just put their digital bloodhounds on her trail; Adam, or Kim, or Chloe could probably have found the former Mrs. Chappelle in minutes, but everyone at Division was too busy, and the staff at CTU had just had the longest, roughest day of their lives. Sleep was what they needed now, not busywork. Besides, there were other things that needed to be done at Chappelle's place: turn off the water and A/C, unplug electrical appliances. Jack took advantage of the excuses, and now that he's inside Ryan's house, the thoughts of what he has to do are floating around in the back of his mind, but they're still just secondary, not the real reason he wanted to come here.

He kicks off his shoes so they don't leave dirty fooprints on the off-white carpet, and walks into the living room, looking around. Looking for answers. He's never liked loose ends, unsolved puzzles, and after what he's seen today that's what Ryan is; one big, unsolved puzzle. He's not sure what exactly he's looking for, what he expects to find. Maybe it's just to see that there is--was--someone behind the Ryan he never really knew.

It's dark inside the house, but Jack doesn't move to turn on any lights, as though he shouldn't be there and doesn't want to leave any sign to the occupant that he was there. As though he's broken into the home of some suspect to plant a few bugs or look for evidence, and he doesn't want to tip them off that anyone has been there.

The place is kind of surprising. For what he thought he'd known about Ryan, he would have expected something very minimalist and contemporary. But instead, it looks both sleek and comfortable; lots of wood in the furniture, but in straight lines and geometrics, the upholstery in neutral colours, but soft and inviting. He doesn't know anything about decorating, but he remembers Teri enthusing over the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, which he seems to remember looked something like this.

The L.A. Times lies open on the coffeetable, folded so only half of one page shows. Leaning a little closer, he can see it's the sports section, open to the baseball scores and league standings. After a moment of hesitation, Jack re-folds the section so it can be slipped back into the rest of the paper and put out for recycling. Something else to remember.

A few photo frames are arranged on a side table next to the sofa, and he leans in for a better look. They all look like they're of Ryan and his ex-wife and kids, obviously taken quite a few years earlier, before things changed in the family. Ryan's actually smiling in the photos, something Jack realizes he's never seen before. Usually the only time he saw Ryan was when something was going wrong, and even if not, the man was always businesslike, never smiling or making small talk. Always focussed on work. Was that what had caused the Chappelles' breakup? More unanswered questions.

Jack shakes himself and moves through the small dining room into the kitchen, trying to think of the errands he has to do, the things he told Tony he was coming here to do. A phone is mounted on the wall in the space between the end of the counter and one of the cabinets, and he takes a look through the small pile of papers near the phone. Bills, mostly. No sign of an address book or notebooks with personal phone numbers, either. One of the techs had taken a look through Ryan's Palm Pilot earlier and hadn't found any personal contacts listed there, just work numbers.

A plate and glass are on the counter near the sink, the plate dusted with breadcrumbs, one edge smeared with ketchup. A small frying pan is in the sink, half-filled with water, crusty bits of egg clinging to its edge. The paper, the dishes; in his mind's eye Jack can see Ryan hurrying into the kitchen carrying plate and glass, dropping both on the counter and quickly putting the pan to soak, rushing because he's spent a little too long reading the paper and is going to be late for work. Planning to take care of the mess when he got home, not knowing that he'd never get the chance to clean up.

Jack washes the dishes and sets them in the draining board, then grabs a half-full bag of garbage from under the sink, another errand. No one's sure when someone will be in to pack up the place, as that's usually the job of the next-of-kin. By the time Ryan's ex or one of his kids arrives to clear the place out, likely the food in the fridge will have gone bad, the smell of garbage will have permeated the whole house. Luckily for Jack, there isn't much that's perishable in the fridge or pantry, and he tosses everything in the garbage bag, pouring a carton each of milk and orange juice down the sink. He dumps the bag near the door in the front hall, then heads down the hallway in the opposite direction from the kitchen.

The first room on his right is a media room, a large entertainment centre dominating one wall. Ryan had most of the latest gadgets: flat screen TV, high-tech speakers, DVD player. There are quite a few shelves filled with DVDs, spanning a number of different genres. Other shelves are filled with stereo equipment, CDs, and even quite a few LPs. The CDs are as varied as the DVDs, though he notices that Ryan seems--seemed, he corrects himself, again--to like the Rolling Stones and The Who in particular. Switching off and unplugging the power bar feeding all the electronics, Jack has to wonder how many people ever actually knew what music Ryan liked, or how often he ever went to the movies with someone. Did anyone besides Ryan ever see this room, ever know any of these things?

The next room is an office, bookshelves lining both of the long walls, a desk with a computer and docking platform for Ryan's laptop sitting under a window. There are no photographs here, just a few files on the desk, along with a phone and all the usual computer accessories. Division will probably want to take the computer in, make sure there's nothing left on the hard drive that the wrong people could get their hands on.

It's in the top drawer of Ryan's desk that Jack makes his discoveries. Sitting in the wooden swivel chair, Jack pulls out an old dayplanner first, obviously the precursor to Ryan's Palm Pilot. Most of the numbers appear to be for work, judging by the number of names Jack recognises. There's only one Chappelle listed: David Chappelle, with a Seattle address. Not his son's name, Ryan's brother then, though who knows how old the address and phone number are. Flipping to the "H" names, Jack finds the rest of Ryan's family: Victoria Hays and Ryan, Caitlin and Christine Hays-Chappelle. There are a number of cross-outs here, new addresses written in underneath, but at a guess, judging by the number of changes, the numbers and addresses are probably fairly recent.

He's getting ready to close the drawer when he see the other things inside and stops. A small photo album rests on top of a couple folded pieces of paper, and for a moment Jack isn't sure if he should look and see what they are. Whatever gut instinct makes him a good agent is now telling him these items are personal.

But he's always hated unanswered questions.

He looks at the small photo album first, the first few pictures like those in the living room, but more candid. A family vacation, one of the kids' birthdays. Usually of the happy family posed in front of the camera, smiling.

The last few are different, though, more recent. Three different pictures of three different college graduations, one young man and two young women receiving their diplomas. Even though the pictures are taken at a bit of a distance, Jack can tell the photos are of Ryan's kids. The last one is a wedding ceremony, one of the girls, taken from quite a few rows back in the church.

Jack pulls out the folded papers before he has much time to think about the photos, wanting to know what else Ryan had stashed in his drawer. It's a motley assortment of ephemera; a child's drawing, a father's day card, a tiny handprint in blue paint with "Caitlin, Age 5" written in an adult hand underneath.

Leaning back in the chair, Jack looks at the things he's found spread out on the desktop. From what he can tell, Ryan's kids were in their early teens or pre-teens when he and Victoria divorced. Did Victoria take the other photographs when they split up, or is there more, stuffed in a closet somewhere? Why keep them in his desk? They weren't out where he could see them, so he must not have wanted to have the constant reminders staring him in the face. But they were in his top desk drawer, not the bottom drawer, not at the back of a bureau or closet. They were just far enough to be kept out of sight, but not far enough to be forgotten. The graduations, the wedding...did the kids know he was there, or did he find out about those events on his own somehow, show up for his own sake?

And why, when Jack had asked if there was anyone Ryan wanted to call, did he only mention his brother, not his wife or kids? Did he not want to mention his family to Jack, even in that desperation finding something he couldn't tell anyone about? Did Ryan not want to call them, afraid they wouldn't listen?

Or was it something simple, the fact that he didn't have their phone numbers memorized? Or because there would never be enough time to say goodbye?

Unanswered questions. Jack closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead where a headache is beginning to build. The house goes silent as the air conditioner turns off, and the only noise is from traffic outside, other residents returning home after a long commute from work. A couple kids are playing basketball in a nearby driveway, and he can hear the rhythmic poing, poing, poing of the ball on cement.

It was stupid coming here for answers, Jack thinks to himself, All I've found are more questions.And though he doesn't actually think it, he knows his coming hasn't solved the other thing that has been dogging him all day, the other thing he subconsciously wanted to remove with a glimpse past the Ryan he always saw: the guilt for killing him. The guilt for giving in to the demands of a terrorist, and exacting that punishment from someone else.

With a sigh, Jack stands up from the chair, then replaces his discoveries in the drawer, except the dayplanner, which he takes with him. He quickly checks the other rooms, turning off Ryan's alarm clock, taking out the garbage bags in office and bathroom, then double-checks all the windows and doors, making sure they're locked. After turning off the air conditioner, he walks out to the garage where he turns off the water, then dumps the garbage bags in the trash can, the paper into the recycling bin. Someone from Division will drive out next week, make sure the garbage and recycling is out for trash day.

Using the instructions Ryan's security company gave him, he sets a new alarm code, scribbling it on the paper so that Division and whoever comes to sort out Ryan's things can get in. Jack pulls his shoes back on, then sets the alarm and walks out the front door, making sure the deadbolt is secure before switching Ryan's keys for his own and climbing back into his SUV, sitting in silence for a moment.

It's getting dark now, and the streetlights are coming on. Porchlights have turned on up and down the street, lights inside the houses casting silhouettes on the blinds. In front of him, Ryan's house lies dark and empty, mute testimony to a life ended. And though it must have been lying there somewhere in his mind the entire time he was inside, for the first time he allows the thought to surface, allows himself to think back three years. If something had happened to him after he'd come back to CTU but before he'd had the chance to make things up with Kim, would someone have been doing the same things for his condo? Making sure it was safe, secure, tying up loose ends? Taking out his garbage, catching glimpses of his photos, of himself and Teri and Kim, smiling, a happy family; before things got strained, before Teri was murdered?

Jack shakes the thought away and turns his key in the ignition, the engine springing to life. Backing out of Ryan's driveway, he heads away from Ryan's home and back to his own, the ghosts of unanswered questions his companions for the drive.

END

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