agirllost | AU Post Season Five

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AU Post Season Five

About two years ago, Jack and Kim Bauer entered Milliways and were changed forever.

Karen and I thought it would be fun (horribly breaky) to see what would happen if they discovered the bar post 24 day 5 canon. More specifically, post day 6 prequel.

Hope you enjoy reading.

POST DAY FIVE

Kim found herself in this place a few days ago. She was confused at first and still a little wary, but she's good at wasting time and that seems to be the only thing to do around here.

A sentient bar, the universe ending outside, it was all a little too hard to believe and yet she'd never been disagnosed as delusional.

She comes downstairs, ruffling her short blonde hair. After that day at CTU, she hadn't wanted long hair anymore, remembering seeing her reflection in the glass while so many people died and --

She twists the ring on her left hand. After finding out about Chris's betrayal and death and Miriam had withdrawn and she'd almost gone to her uncle and grandfather but she knew what her dad felt about them. Instead, she clung onto Barry tighter and when she asked if her dad was okay, he'd lie to her. She knew they were lies because when Barry wasn't looking she'd done research and kept dreaming about those last moments over and over.

But, all of that felt far away here, and though she'd swore herself to Barry, she still misses someone else.

She sits near the window and watches the universe expand and contrast, thinking about how disaster is always on the other side.

[OOC: Warnings for angst, references to violence, and woe.]

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The guards hardly let his feet touch the floor as they half-lead, half-drag him back to his cell. Not that he'd be able to walk alone at their pace at the moment. Ever since they'd tricked him into giving up Hong, they had redoubled their attempts to get information out of him. But however long it had been--time had stopped having any meaning for him here--he hadn't spoken, hadn't given them any more information. There didn't seem to be a point in doing anything, and that included talking.

Through the dim light of the hallway he can make out the concrete floor, the stains, scratches and chips having become familiar to him after the hundreds of times they'd pulled him along the corridor. He doesn't bother looking up, as there's nothing to see except concrete walls and other cells, other guards who will hit him if he dares to make eye contact. Once, so long ago, he'd dared to show defiance. Now there doesn't seem to be any point. He's too tired to bother, already in too much pain to make it worth it.

He lets his eyes close as they move, and soon enough he hears the rumbling of the door to his cell opening. With a barked command, they shove him inside and slam the door behind him.

But somehow, between the shove and the slam, things suddenly change. Light and noise explode around him, overwhelming him after so much silence and near-darkness. Opening his eyes, he's forced to squint against the comparative brightness of the light, and he steps back, his back hitting a wall, shrinking away from the noise of people surrounding him.

As his eyes adjust to the light, his surroundings begin to take shape, though not to make sense. It looks like he's in a bar of all places, a bar filled with people that he doesn't recognise. But even as he holds back, almost expecting an attack, he realizes that they don't appear angry or threatening. They're laughing or smiling or just talking to each other.

The thought that this is a trick as well crosses his mind, but it seems far too elaborate for that. Maybe he's hallucinating, maybe the Chinese had given him something, though he doesn't remember them doing so.

Uncertain whether what he sees is real; unable to believe that it is, Jack simply stands frozen to the spot, self-conscious and wary in his filthy clothes and long, matted hair and beard while around him people simply act as he would expect people in a bar to, talking, laughing and drinking; as though he was the one that didn't really exist.

Kim stirs her drink with a straw, listening to the conversations around her, but not really wanting to participate.

She's met a few people and she glances toward the door when she hears it opening, hoping that it's someone she knows.

The door vanishes before she can glimpse the other side and a slight man stands in front of the wall, his head lowered as if afraid to make eye contact.

From the few times she's seen it, people tend to be more openly surprised when they enter and although she can't see his face, he seems afraid.

Other people look at him and she wonders when he's from. He could be a peasant from the middle ages or someone held captive for a long time Maybe he's the man in the iron mask. His clothing is loose and she spots marks that could be blood. Someone should help him, not her, she can't even take care of herself let alone anyone else.

But he seems so lost and she finds herself standing and cautiously walking over to him, watching him for hidden weapons and being ready to get security if they're needed.

He senses as much as sees movement off to one side, his awareness of people around him heightened by being in captivity for so long, when there was nothing to do but listen for that first sound of footsteps approaching.

Turning sharply, he looks up to see who's approaching, unconsciously bracing himself against a threat. But as he glances up at the face of the person walking toward him, he stops, unable to keep from staring even though he'd been conditioned to keep his eyes on the ground.

Everything in him wants to believe that it's her, that it's really Kim walking toward him, but he'd forced himself to give up that hope of seeing her again long ago. Besides, he can't even be sure this place is real, that it's not just a hallucination.

If it is a hallucination, though, he's not sure he wants to wake up.

Without thinking he speaks her name--or tries to. Barely any sound comes out; an unintelligible, whispery rasp, as having not spoken for the length of his captivity, and having spent much of the last few hours screaming, his voice doesn't work on the first try. But his lips still make the shape of the word, which she might recognise as her own name.

As she approaches, her stomach tenses and she wants to go back to her table but it's too late to turn around; he's noticed her.

She's close enough to smell him and her smile falters as she gets nearer. He doesn't only smell bad, but vaguely of hospitals and burnt flesh. She looks at him without seeing him, noting that he's wary, and his face hasn't been scarred. She can't hold eye contact for very long, glancing away and finding evidence of other bruises, seeing ligature marks around his wrists and she breathes through her mouth, trying not to think about what could have happened to him.

It's easier to focus on his face and there's something familiar about him, details coming to light like waiting for a picture on a slow server, and she freezes as the synapses connect.

No. No. It's impossible. No. Please No.

Never in her life has she wanted to be wrong more, but she'd know those eyes anywhere and oh God he's trying to say her name.

He can see the moment of recognition in her eyes, and he knows that she knows who he is, but he can also see the look of horror on her face and his instinct is to take a step back. She'd pushed him away once, he's not sure he can live through that again, and not now, even if it isn't real. Looking like he does, remembering all too well how she'd said goodbye with such finality, he's not sure her approaching him is a good thing.

His knees are feeling weak, and he puts one hand against the wall for support, noting belatedly that there doesn't seem to be a door where he walked in. But even though he can only brace himself for more heartache here, even if the door was there, he knows he wouldn't go back. That even though seeing Kim hurts so much, he can't help but look back, after so long wishing he could see her again.

She doesn't move closer, but she puts up her hands in a placating way. "Dad?" No one could be cruel enough to play this trick, so it has to be him, even if he looks different and can't speak.

A part of her wants to run, but she can't leave him like this.

"I'm not going to hurt you," her voice wobbles and she stifles the urge to scream. She wishes Barry could be here, he'd know what to say and what to do.

He nods, though he's not sure about that last part, scared to reach out to her in case she melts away like he half expects everything will if he dares to believe in it.

He swallows, he tries talking again, this time the word coming out in the roughest of whispers, but intelligible. "Where?"

And it's his voice, rough and difficult to hear, but it's the same voice that read her stories at night and told her how much he loved her and begged for another chance.

She thinks about explaning the bar to him and settles for a more general answer. "Somewhere safe."

That doesn't really help answer the question of how he got here when last he thought he was in China, or where this place is--if it even exists--but he's too overwhelmed to deal with it at the moment. The noise and the light are making him uncomfortable, and inside he wants to get away from everything as fast as he can, as it feels like there's too much coming at him at once.

Looking down, he's reminded of how he has to look, and how much attention his appearance is likely to draw. He doesn't want anyone looking at him; it's been a long time since any of the guards seemed to look at him and actually see him, and the thought of people doing that now is intensely uncomfortable. "Can..." He swallows again, though his mouth is pretty dry, and it hurts to talk. "Is there somewhere I can clean up?" he asks, not looking up at her.

The tone of his voice makes her throat tighten a little.

What would Barry tell him? How would he handle this?

People are starting to look at them and it's that feeling of being watched more than anything else that leads her to take a few more steps forward.

"You should go to the infirmary."

"No." It doesn't take much thought for him to give that answer, and he doesn't pause to swallow or to try and force it out. He just looks up at her, trying to look stern, though it's hard when just the mention of an infirmary brings back the kinds of things he's learned to associate with "doctors" in the last few months. The doctors in the prison weren't there to help; they were Cheng's helpers in inflicting pain. The best they did was keep him alive and that wasn't much of a favor.

"Just...need a shower." he adds, his voice fading near the end.

She looks up at him, taking another breath through her mouth. He looks so fragile and skittish.

"You're hurt," she points out softly. "Doctors here can...I've heard they can help..." Kim trusts doctors and more than being clean, she thinks her dad needs medical attention.

"No," he says, managing to say it a little more emphatically this time. He takes a step backward, tensing at the prospect of being poked and prodded and examined like he was a thing, not a person, yet again. Like he was someone's science experiment. "No doctors."

He seems terrified, an emotion she's never seen from him, and one she'd do almost anything to never see again. "Okay. No doctors." She tries to sound soothing, knowing she's more afraid than anything else. "I have a room." She holds out her room key, wanting to avoid touching him, and hating herself for being distant.

He reaches out, taking the key from her hand. It's probably just as well that she's being distant; he's not sure he could handle it if she'd hugged him or gotten too close, either. Usually the only time people got close to him was to inflict pain, and even though he knows she's not going to do that, he can't quite stifle the conditioned response.

"Where is it?" he asks, not meeting her eyes, wishing he didn't have to accept her help, or ask for it.

He's careful to touch only the key and she realizes he flinched slightly when she reached out. He's changed. "Upstairs. Room 21," she turns a little and looks toward the stairs. She barely stops from asking if he can handle stairs or if he needs help.

He looks over at the stairs, then back at her, meeting her eyes for a moment. Nodding, he whispers a "thanks", and start making his way toward the stairs, his steps slow and painful. They'd hit him in the knee earlier, almost as though they'd been warming up, and a jolt of pain goes through it with each step. He won't let himself stumble in front of her, though. Bad enough she'd seen him like this to begin with.

"I'll see you soon," she whispers. She watches him leave, a pained expression on her face, and folds her arms over her chest. He's walking slowly and there are more bloodstains on the back of his shirt.

He's trying to be strong for her, even after being tortured for months. The least she can do is wait until he's gone to cry over what they did to him.

Barry was wrong. He's not okay. They hurt him and kept hurting him.

When he reaches the stairs, she lets herself walk back to the table and covers her face with her hands, unable to hold back a gasped sob.

It is worse than she had imagined.

He's lucky there's a lift on the stairs, well marked, as otherwise there was no way he'd have gotten up them. After that, finding Kim's room is easy, though when he opens the door and finds what looks like a nice hotel room, it feels unreal, dreamlike. After so long in a small, bare cell, something about the room makes him uncomfortable.

More uncomfortable, though, is finding men's clothing in his size in the bathroom, neatly folded on the countertop; a towel, soap, beard trimmer and electric razor laid out for him as though someone had been expecting him. Looking around her room, he finds nothing that looks like there's a man living there, nothing to indicate that this isn't for him. His stomach twists, panic gripping him for a moment as the thought comes back to him that this might be another trap. But then it's all so elaborate. There had been so many people downstairs, they couldn't all be working for the Chinese. Kim couldn't be.

Locking the bathroom door, he stands there for a moment, staring at the things on the counter. He's avoiding the mirror with his eyes on purpose; he hasn't seen himself in a mirror for however long he's been imprisoned.

Finally, he reaches over, picking up the beard trimmer, and looks up into the mirror.

Suddenly he's not so surprised Kim didn't recognise him at first; with his long, shaggy hair an beard, deeper lines around his eyes and forehead and thinner face, he's not entirely sure he'd recognise himself.

He looks down into the sink for a moment, trying to take it all in, not sure how he feels, or if he really feels anything. Then, he turns on the trimmer and gets to work.

Twenty minutes later he's in the shower, clean-shaven, his hair down to a long buzz cut. Stepping under the stream of lukewarm water, he can feel some of the muscles in his body start to relax; the first pleasurable feeling he's had in a long time, even if the feeling of the water on some of the more recent cuts and burns makes him clench his fists in pain. For a moment, he just stands there, enjoying the feeling of the warm spray, opening his mouth and letting it run down his parched throat, before picking up the bar of soap and starting to scrub himself all over, clenching his teeth as the soapy water makes his injuried stinkg. Washing off the accumulated dirt and blood and grease, using warm water and actual shampoo and soap... It feels like the most decadent of luxuries just to feel clean again.

He doesn't want to get out of the shower, but eventually he does, wrapping himself in the warmth and softness of the towel, before pulling on the sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt provided, grateful that there's nothing involving zippers or buttons as the fingers on his right hand are still stiff with new scar tissue. He can't raise his arms much past shoulder height but he manages to get into his clothes, stepping out into the room.

The bed looks soft and inviting--God, how long has it been since he's slept in a bed?--but it's not his room, and lying down doesn't feel right. Instead he takes a seat in one of the chairs--still much mroe comfortable than anything he's experienced in a long time--and sits in the silence, trying to believe that this isn't all fake, that it isn't a hallucination or a dream.

Kim wishes anyone else was here now instead of her. Audrey, her mom, even Tony would be able to handle this better, they'd know how to get through to him, they wouldn't be so paralyzed at the sight of his scars, and they'd be less afraid of losing him forever. She looks toward the wall, half-hoping that one of them would appear, but there's no one and she has to make a choice.

She gazes at her drink through watery eyes and takes a small sip, almost gagging on the alcohol but managing to swallow after a moment. She owes her dad more than getting drunk. She pushed him away, at the time that felt like the right decision, but seeing him in that state...maybe one more drink wouldn't hurt - no, she promised Barry and he told her that alcohol and sleeping pills weren't the answer.

Then again, Barry had never seen someone he loved tortured or the look of panic in her dad's eyes or the visible scars on his hand or known that he was to blame for the wariness and distance. She holds her hand against her cheek, after that moment she didn't think she'd see her dad again, and only by telling herself it would hurt less in the end was she able to keep from clinging to him. She already mourned him, her psyche wouldn't take another blow, but after getting that phone call, it was hard to keep him in the past. Turning away from him once was hard enough, but she had been strengthened by anger and righteousness and the situation had proved that she'd been right; he brought nothing but danger and heartache. She can't hold onto those feelings now, they're slipping away, and she's powerless against her instincts. It's one thing to write off someone who is free and okay but not part of your life anymore, it's another to know that they're being held and tortured and when they die you'll never know.

Now that she's seen him, he's real again, and she can't make herself walk away. Perhaps she'll never be able to leave him again - it is out of her hands, he appeared here, he needs her and confirmed every fear she's been living with for over half a year. She's finding it almost impossible to stay angry with someone who looks so lost, who won't even trust doctors, who stared at her without any defenses and kept tensing and waiting for her to hurt him. The realization hits her that this is what he disappeared to keep from happening, and it's hard to blame anyone for choosing to run away rather than facing that fate. She's hurt he didn't tell her, but knowing the enemy he's facing, she can even understand that a little. Four people knew and three are dead.

She waits until her tears have dried and she's calmed down before standing up again and makes her way over to the bar. She asks Bar for a few things and soon has food and a deluxe portable first aid kit. Armed with these tools, she goes upstairs to her room and knocks softly on the door.

Jack jumps at the knock, the sound breaking the stillness so suddenly that it snaps him out of his reverie with a jolt. Moving to push himself out of the chair, the pain in his back, his shoulders and knee stops him before he gets very far. He's used to living with pain, but right now, he's too tired from everything to make the effort.

Clearing his throat, he manages to raise his voice enough so that it'll be heard on the other side of the door, even if it tears at his throat to do it. "It's not locked," he says, not failing to be struck by the novelty of someone actually knocking; an implicit request to come in, instead of just barging in like the guards always did.

She can barely hear him, but figures that means it's okay to come in and starts pushing the door open, more than a little worried about what she'll find on the other side. She's carrying the first aid kit like a laptop case and the tray has various pain killers, a thermos of soup, and a bottle of water; more bottles are tucked into the outside of the bag.

It takes her a moment to look up and relief is clear in her expression. He looks more like her dad now and less like a wounded animal. Without talking she places the tray on a table and slips the first aid kit off her shoulder and onto the floor.

He looks up briefly as she walks in, still uncomfortable meeting her eyes, or anyone's. "Thanks," he says softly, his voice still hoarse, his throat still hurting to talk. He nods toward the first aid kit. It looks brand new; not like something that belonged to the bar that she borrowed. "Where did you get that?"

"From the Bar. I know that might not make sense, but this isn't a...normal bar," she sits on the edge of the bed and opens the kit. His voice is starting to sound the way it did when she was ten and he had laryngitis for a week. "I wish you'd let a doctor look at you," she glances up at him.

He shakes his head, determined not to give in. The prison's doctors hadn't done much to help him except keep him alive, and he's still breathing at the moment. Besides, even the sight of some of the things in the first aid kit make him feel sick; he doesn't want to go anywhere near an infirmary.

"I'll be fine," he says, knowing he probably doesn't sound all that convincing.

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