trigger_man | (no subject)

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Jack's been keeping an eye on Beckett, and he's starting to have to admit to himself that it's not just out of ordinary human concern. He's worried about her, particularly considering the hallucinations she'd had. Which means that he's started to see her as more than an acquaintance. Maybe not quite a friend, yet, but more than just someone whose name he knows.

He's not sure how he feels about this. He doesn't want to get close to anyone; getting close means getting hurt eventually. And it's not himself getting hurt that he's really worried about.

But even with those misgivings he can't not head up to Beckett's room, carrying a tray from Bar with the kinds of things she needs, or should have. Chicken soup, orange juice, ginger ale, kleenex; it might have been Bar's idea, but Jack had been intending to get a few things anyway.

He shifts the tray to one hand so he can knock on the door. He has her key, of course, but he can't be sure she isn't taking a bath to try and cool off or that she wants the company.

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Beckett nods understandingly.

"The flu still going around? Maybe you shouldn't be heading down either."

He gives her a wry look. "It's the flu, Beckett. Trust me, I've dealt with worse."

"Oh, I know. Pretty sure some of these memories aren't going anywhere."

She takes another sip of soup.

Jack's eyes flicker away from her momentarily. "So you still remember all that stuff, even now that the fiver's gone?"

"Not all of it."

She's not sure whether or not to be grateful for that.

"Is that a problem?"

He's stuck between wanting to explain what she remembers and not really wanting to talk about it at all. "I'm not sure I'm the one here who should really have a problem. I'm not the one with the memories from some totally different person in my head."

"I think I'm surprising myself on that front."

She sets down the thermos, reaching for the orange juice, but cradles it in her hand for a minute.

"But my head's tired, and right now, I can't force myself to be bothered."

He nods. After a brief pause he asks, "Do you have any questions about stuff that I can answer?"

"Are you saying that because you really want to answer them?"

She takes a small sip of OJ.

"Jack, I don't want to pry."

"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't intending to answer your questions," he says. "You already know some of it. And it's not prying if I'm offering."

"Okay," she sighs.

"You worked for CTU, right? Why did you leave?"

"Depends on which time you're talking about. I haven't been a regular employee of CTU in almost five years. The day that I ran into Stenger was the second time I happened to get caught in the middle of things and worked with CTU for the day. Before that day...I hadn't worked with CTU for about eighteen months because I'd had to fake my death."

He knows it's maybe not what she was asking about--why he hadn't worked with CTU after the day he'd met Collette--but it's not just because he's trying to avoid telling her, or just because he finds it difficult to talk about. It's a long story and so many pieces are interconnected that it's hard to give a short, simple answer.

"You'd faked your death," she echoes, and it comes out as less of a disbelieving question as she considers the concept.

For safety reasons, obviously, but in all her time working for the 12th Precinct, she's never once had to go into hiding (though there was that case with the Russian mob family, after which Will had kindly suggested she lay low - she'd firmly insisted otherwise, of course).

It's something interesting to consider now, with him here, and she nods in thought.

"But you're not planning to work for them again, whether temporarily or not."

Jack shakes his head. "I can't...I can't do the kind of things that CTU asks of its agents anymore. I don't have the faith in my government that I'd need. And I doubt they'd hire me in the first place," he says, his tone darkening.

He doubts CTU would be rushing to hire someone that they believed gave up information that ended in the death of an agent.

"I'm sorry," she says.

For what, she's not sure. Maybe that he'd had to come to that realization in a way that appears to have been really difficult. Maybe that he'd had to come to that realization at all.

Jack shakes his head. "I'm not," he says, though he gets the feeling that she's not just talking about his being out of a job. He isn't sorry that he won't be working for CTU again, but he sure as hell wishes he could change what led to that. Especially if it meant certain people not dying in the process.

"CTU takes a lot from your life. I tried starting over, having a real life again once before, but like I said, I ended up back there during a crisis."

Again, it's hard for her to tell if there's relief in his voice when he's talking about CTU, but it seems like it's better for everyone involved if he's gotten out of everything that would keep him involved there.

"Here's your chance, then," she tells him. "To get your life back."

"Or start a new one," he says, trying to sound calm, though he's not sure he quite makes it. There isn't really much for him to get back.

It's optimism, however small, and she nods encouragingly, reaching for that thermos again.

"That's the spirit," she murmurs.

He's not sure it really counts as optimism. He still has to figure out why he should bother.

"This place doesn't seem like too bad a spot to start doing that. Barring the stranger flus that people get here."

"And I'm pretty sure that's not all too common," Beckett adds.

"At least there's enough to do here and outside."

"I haven't explored inside much; mostly outside." He's certainly planning to take advantage of the target range he'd found.

"I've been to the firing range a few times," Beckett confesses, setting down the thermos and laying back, propping a pillow against the couch's arm for her head.

"It's... therapeutic."

"Yeah. Punching bags are good for that too, I've found."

At the moment he's feeling like a punching bag might be better. It's a little more direct, a little more hands-on, imagining that the punching bag is someone he'd like to beat the hell out of.

"Trying to get tough cases out of your system?" he asks, with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Mmm."

Beckett scrunches her nose at the option of a punching bag, then shakes her head.

"Tough writers," she adds, with a slow smirk.