Disclaimer: These characters are belong to Joel Surnow, Robert Cochran, Fox, and Real Time Productions. I have no money to survive don't make your sue.

Author's Notes: This is inspired by a deleted scene from 3x22. Spoilers. Thanks to Rachel for directing me to that scene, for feeding the bunny, and to her, Karen, Bridget, Yvonne and all the lovely ladies of the workshop for prereading this for me. Enjoy!

“Go ahead, Tony. Go ahead and do it.”

He had never seen Jack like this. He was on the ground, fearlessly staring at death. Tony was not taken by Jack’s fearlessness. It was as familiar to him as the old coffee maker in the break room. Just as that old coffee maker would never leave the break room, regardless how many a misfortune it suffered, Jack’s fearlessness would never leave him. But something else did: his spirit.

“Why don’t you fight back, Jack?” said Tony. He stared at Jack, who lay acquiescent under his heel, and wondered where his fighting strength had gone. Why had he let himself be taken over so easily? Why hadn’t he fought back?

“I just want you to do it, Tony,” said Jack. “You said you were going to kill me, then kill me. Stop talking and do it.”

“What about Kim? You don’t want to see Kim again? You aren’t sad that you’ll never see her again once I’m through with you?”

Jack grunted. “Kim’s an adult. She can manage on her own.”

“She’s your daughter.”

“She’s an adult!” Jack raised his head and looked at Tony. “What, are you afraid to pull the trigger?” He smirked, and the light of the noon sun crept along the masochistic glints in his eyes. My God, thought Tony, he wants to die.

Tony tightened his grip around the gun, pulled his fingers in a little closer to the trigger. The tighter he held the gun, the less his hands shook, but the more his palms sweated and made maintaining the grip more difficult. He tried to prevent all signs of weakness from betraying him to the madman that beseeched for his own end. Tony hadn’t made a mere threat to Jack; he promised his death in return for Michelle’s. And Michelle did die, right in front of his eyes, because of Jack’s arrogance. Jack Bauer, ever the expert in managing hostage crises, had thought it best to keep their only leverage over Saunders until he told them where the eleven vials were. Jack did not quite calculate the extent of Saunders’ impatience, and did not quite calculate the human cost. It was only when he saw Michelle’s dead body fall with a fresh gunshot wound in her forehead did he dare imagine he had miscalculated.

Had Jack not taken flight from the scene, he might have been spared from Tony’s wrath a minute longer. Tony had immediately followed Jack without heed to the cries of those around him. Jack led him in a winding pursuit around the gutters and sidewalks, so frantic and yet so calculated in its distance, away from the trade-off site and the good souls of Los Angeles who dared not witness misdeeds that demanded intervention for conscience’s sake. Jack led him to an abandoned warehouse and stopped, stared him square in the eye, and raised his hands to begin an invitation to death he needn’t have said. The moment he opened his mouth, Tony punched him in the stomach and knocked him to the ground. He took out his gun. He aimed it at Jack’s forehead. He is going to die just like he let Michelle die.

Jack submitted to Tony’s rage at once. He stared at the high ceiling as if he begged for it to fall. Why hadn’t Tony seen it then? Jack was asking to die. He had anticipated his death ever since he had said, “I know,” perhaps even longer. Tony was tempted to put the gun down. Why give Jack the satisfaction of having something he wanted so much? Why should he do Jack a favor? Tony felt his grip loosen. His eyes darted for the briefest moment to blank concrete ground. In that moment, on that blank canvas, he saw Michelle lying limp on the ground, her brown eyes staring wide at death, her lips growing colder by the minute, never to be kissed again, and blood mingling with her beautiful curls, running down her clear skin.

Why should he give Jack the satisfaction of dying?

Michelle. Michelle.

“Well, what’s it going to be Tony? I’m waiting.”

Tony’s glare returned to Jack’s dead stare. There were so many things he could say to Jack then, so many hurts he could convey, so much anger he could pack into insufficient words. But the words were that and that alone: insufficient to his overwhelming rage.

Tony’s last word to Jack was a loud growl. He pulled the trigger. He never missed a shot.

Jack’s head jerked back and hit the ground hard. Blood seeped out of the gunshot wound, trickled down his cheeks and began to pool under his thin hair. The sound of the shot echoed against the brown-gray walls of the warehouse, surrounding Tony in a war of clashing sounds. He took his foot off Jack’s chest and stood still for a moment, staring at the corpse before him. Jack’s face was expressionless. No matter how hard Tony searched for a fossil of emotion, he found none. He stared at a bleeding mannequin.

Tony took a few steps back. He didn’t count how many steps he took, or calculate how far he would retreat from the corpse. He ran hand against his hair and felt something hard and hot press against it. The gun. Tony tripped and fell backwards into a sitting position, one leg folded under the other. The gun dropped out of his hands. It sat next to him, like a devil waiting to be sent on its next hell bound mission. His breathing was growing heavier. Oh, God, what have I done?

He held a hand up to his open mouth. Warm and wet tears ran down his fingers. Michelle was dead. Jack was dead. He had killed Jack. Jack had killed Michelle. No, Saunders had killed Michelle; he had blamed it on Jack. Jack was doing what he thought was best. Jack was trying to protect the country. Oh, God, what have I done?

He heard the sirens chasing him, their wailing growing closer as they made haste to capture him. They would see the body. They would see Tony. They would see the gun. They would think of Michelle, and how she had made that tragic mistake years ago to stain her good name with Tony’s. They would think of the thoughtless love they shared, of how she had vowed trust a liar who had deceived her into believing he would protect her. They would know who did the deed. They would know that Jack Bauer, a great soldier, had died at the hands of a wretched, unworthy bastard named Tony Almeida.

“Oh, God,” cried Tony, “what have I done?”

END

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