Another motel room. Jack lay on the bed, half-watching the news. He kept telling himself that he didn't care about what was going on in the world, but without any knowledge he felt disconnected and vulnerable. For so long he had an inside track, but now, anything could happen and he'd have no way to help, no way to stop it.

Not many people could say they'd read about their own funeral - but that was enough to make him stick to televised news.

The couple next door was going at it - if he didn't hear the woman's gasping pleas for more, more, more, it would have sounded like something else - an attack, a threat.

It was two in the morning but there was no reason to sleep, or eat, or for that matter breathe. Living was just a habit, one that he couldn't break.

Without realizing it, his fingers curled around the metal of the gun, waiting for the moment where the woman's cries turned to screams, calling for help, hoping someone would hear her.

He'd move into action, stepping out of the room, leaning against the wall, opening the door of the room next door - or kicking it open. He'd grab the guy and punch him until his hands were coated in blood Might not even stop then, keep going until his knuckles hurt and the man's face was unrecogniable, because he didn't have any information and he wasn't useful.

A long time since he had to use any of his skills. His hand tightened around the grip. He'd enjoy it - not the killing, that was necessary - but the look in the woman's eyes when he saved her.

He only had a moment to feel disgusted by that thought before he pictured the woman, probably a blonde or a redhead, hugging him tightly and whispering, thank you, thank you, thank you.

His fantasies were now about what used to be part of his job description and his life was more lonely than dangerous.

Two nights ago a pretty dark-haired waitress offered to keep him company. Her short hair and green eyes turned him more off than on. He found that a few drinks made it very easy to pull her closer. He didn't know why she - or any woman - would want him. Before, they were always attracted to his confidence, his gentleness, and his intelligence. Each woman so sure that only she could bring him out of his shell - none of them having any idea how easily he could fall, and how much he needed them.

But that was a different man and his new persona wasn't gentle.

At least, he wanted to be cruel and cold, it would make life so much easier. Instead, he always found himself holding them, kissing them, barely interested in sex, but needing to feel someone in his arms, listen to a soft laugh or breathing other than his own. The waitress was long limbed and had knowing eyes. By daybreak, she was dressed and ready to leave, and he didn't want to let her go. He wanted to hear her talk, try to make her smile, try to get back to some form of who he was, because death couldn't change everything.

However, it was easier to turn away, pretend that he wished she'd leave, and she expected nothing else, the sunlight revealing that she was probably only a year or two older than his daughter, her face a little too thin, her eyes sad, and he swallowed an apology, looking up at her with dull eyes, schooling his features into blankness.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek. He had to keep himself from reaching out, his mouth thinning into a line.

Next door, they were almost done, the woman's gasps turned into muffled screams, but not from terror. The man made a few noises and then it was silent.

She didn't need his help.

END

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