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 After finding out about Chris's betrayal and death and Miriam had withdrawn and she'd almost gone to her uncle and grandfather but she knew what her dad felt about them.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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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.

"A doctor would be able to do something. I don't know what I'm doing," she admits, looking at the raw scar on his hand. The thought of having to clean and dress his wounds is making her queasy; it was easy to think in the abstract but now that she's in front of him she's not sure she can touch him, or that he'll let her.

"I can do it myself," he says, holding out his hand for the kit. He doesn't want her to see the extent of his scars and injuries, and it's not like he hasn't done it before. He's had to sew up his own cuts while on missions with Delta before, without the benefit of anasthetic, and this can't hurt any more than anything the Chinese had done to him.

He's taken the decision away from her, but she's not convinced. "Can you reach all of them?" She nudges the kit closer to him. "Maybe you should take two or three of the pills first."

"Yeah," he says, picking up the bottle of painkillers--extra strength. "I should be able to reach them."

She takes a breath, she can't help him, and maybe she never could. "I forgot that you don't really need anyone," she says and focuses her attention on the kit.

He's pushing himself to the edge of the chair, trying to stand as she speaks, and for once he hopes that she only sees the flash of pain on his face as simply physical.

Getting to his feet, he picks up the first aid kit.

"I learned to do without," he says, flatly, as though he was talking about giving up ice cream or smoking, trying to push the hurt and guilt away before it can swamp him.

The coldness of his tone hurts her.

She looks up, a little startled by his reaction. "Dad, I - " she whispers, unable to keep from tearing as she imagines the last few years of his life. "I'll be here, whether you need me or not."

Hearing the hurt in her voice only makes him feel worse, but if he stops to talk about it now he has a feeling he's never going to get his wounds dressed.

"I'll be back in a minute," he says, not looking at her as he shuffles over to the bathroom.

"Okay." She nods and watches him walk, reminded of how he was after his heart attack, only he's even weaker now. After the door closes she rubs her eyes and tries to get her emotions back under control.

Closing the bathroom door, Jack leans on the counter for a minute, letting his head hang, his eyes shut. It's not the pain in his back or his knee that's he's bracing himself against at the moment. Somehow, he and Kim always knew how to hurt eachother; then again he's not sure he should have expected any different, after hurting her so badly by making her believe he was dead. Even if it was to save her life.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to push his emotions aside; he'd had to learn how to ignore them--even more so than when he'd been at CTU--to just not feel anything, because they would just make him all the more likely to break.

Carefully pulling off his shirt and pants, he sets to slathering ointment on the freshest cuts and burns, covering them with self-adhesive gauze pads. None of the cuts are terribly deep; they went for areas that caused more pain than bloodshed, but some of the burns are blistered, a couple of which have popped, oozing fluid, and he grits his teeth as he covers them in ointment and bandages them.

He turns, twisting his head to look at his back in the mirror, unprepared for what he sees. There's extensive scarring there; a few old ones, but many more new. Only now does it hit him that no matter where he goes or what happens to him, what he sees in the mirror will be there forever. Even if he manages to get out--something he never lets himself think about but if this is place is real there's maybe a possibility that he can at least stay here--the scars will be with him forever, and every time he looks in the mirror he won't be able to avoid thinking about it.

Turning his head away, he stares at the opposite wall, trying to stay calm, trying to focus on the task at hand. He can't keep his hands from shaking as he tears open a new gauze pad, though.

There are only two wounds he can't reach: electrical burns that haven't blistered, so he leaves them, pulling his clothes back on. Walking back into the bedroom, he's finding it harder to keep himself upright, exhausted by everything that's happened as well as the chronic sleep deprivation they'd inflicted on him. Not meeting Kim's eyes, he takes a seat again, placing the first aid kit by his chair.

Her dad is a master at hiding how he feels, but even after being away from him for so long she sees his slumped shoulders and the way he's leaning against the back of the chair. She'd listened for signs of trouble, but even if she'd heard something, she probably wouldn't have entered the bathroom. He made it clear that he didn't want help.

She's grateful he was in the bathroom for a while, because it took her more than a few minutes to keep from sobbing and if she'd looked at his scars, there was no way she could hide her reaction.

"If you want to lie down...I'll sit in the chair," she says after a moment.

He shakes his head; he doesn't want to take her bed. "How did you get a room?"

"When I came here, someone asked the bar for a room key and it just...appeared," her eyes narrow a little. "You're in no shape to go down there."

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed," he says, glancing up at her.

"I just woke up a few hours ago. I'm not going to sleep for a while." She's tempted to tell him this isn't up for debate. Telling him he looks exhausted would only be pointing out the obvious. "You need it more than I do."

He's too tired to argue, particularly when he's not used to putting up much resistance besides stoic silence.

"Okay," he says, rubbing his eyes with his left hand before slowly pushing himself out of the chair.

After an awkward moment of silence, she stands, and folds her arms against her chest. She gives him more room than necessary, almost positive that if she wasn't his daughter, he would have asked her to leave a while ago. As it is, she keeps her distance, trying to hide her wariness.

"It's a good bed, better than you'd find at most hotels," she says, taking another step back.

"It's a bed," he says, making it to his feet and shuffling across the floor. Hell, even the most lumpy, ratty, battered bed would feel like heaven after sleeping on a concrete floor for so long.

She watches him as he inches toward the bed and wants to hold onto his arm and help him but has no idea how to offer. Instead, she pulls down the sheets and cover and steps away from the bed again.

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