Not My Planet

Pics

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 23:34:33 GMT

This one's for </b></a>kitty_alexander. Sorry it took so long. It's actually been on front of my drawing board. I just haven't had time to get there.

Fic: Raining Red (X)

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 23:29:49 GMT

Title: Raining Red (IX)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc. There are some very graphic scenes coming up.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: Finally, fall break. You'd be amazed at how the paperwork piles up. I've doing this for four years and I'm still floored. Anyways, I'm trying to catch up on everything. Sorry for the wait.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part IIX
Part IX

Adam tried to get the tin off water to boil over the small lamp flame. He wanted coffee dammit! It didn’t seem to be working. Christ. “Rick are you done with the stove yet?” There was no response from his young bunkmate. Irratated he looked up. “Rick?”

The kid was by the window looking out onto the muddy road. A blanket of humidity had settled over camp after the rain. It matched the invisible weight that seemed to hold them all down. “Adam…” Rick’s voice was so quiet and fearful the older man trotted over.

Outside the window, silently curled in the mud, Kate covered her face as Wayne tried to hold off five artillerymen that had been kicking her. “Get the sergeant,” Adam hissed at Rick. They were too damn close to the artillery camp. Any loud shouts would draw unwanted attention. “And Michelle and the snake-eater if he’s back.”

Hurrying over to his bunk he reached under the pillow and withdrew the silenced .22 Chase had told him was affectionately called a hush-puppy as it saw the most use on Vietcong dogs. Gun tucked in belt he ran out of the hootch, low to the ground.

John Wayne, Doggy San, and Dumbshit were sleeping in their usual huddle. When Adam woke them whispering, “Hush, hush, hush.” The stood silently. He unhooked their leads and snapped his fingers. “Come on with me.” Dumbshit started to bark but a quick whack cut that short. “Come on.”

Dogs and soldier crept towards the unfair fight carefully. Stupid fuckers. You did not mess with Nevada’s grunts no matter whether they were black, white, or pink with purple polka-dots. John was growling low in her throat. Though what had possessed Curtis to name his only girl-dog John Wayne was widely debated.

He could see Michelle holding a shotgun tightly to her shoulder. No Tony yet. That was okay. Those bastards were lucky Wayne was in the way or that horizontal duckbill Michelle had on her twelve-gauge would be doing its work in spreading the buckshot in a straight, deadly line through the air at chest height.

Aaron and Curtis were backing Chloe, unarmed but never useless. The woman had a crowbar she’d picked up from the garage tent. Even Nadia, Mike, and Milo had shown up. Though Nadia was barefoot, wearing Mike’s Jacket and no bra if Adam was any judge. Mike was shirt less. And Milo’s pants were hanging loosely from his hips, belt unbuckled and zipper undone. Adam rolled his eyes. The girl couldn’t just choose one could she?

Tony strode down the rode. His boots sloshed with every step as he walked towards the fray. In the nooks and shadows he could see his people, armed with blunt objects, guns, knives, and glass bottles. He smiled grimly. If the boys from across camp wanted a fight that’s what they would get in full fucking techni-color.

“How the hell does she know you?” Jack demanded, following Chase to avoid being left behind.

The kid shrugged. “It happened when I was coming out of Cambodia. I was half-dead, delirious, and so jumped up on junk that I didn’t know where I was. Kim-Ly’s sister found me lying in the dyke of their rice paddy trying to drown myself. She hauled me out and kept her at her house. Fed me goat milk, canh broth, and mam until I stopped dieing on her. Cut the worst of the infection.” He paused to wipe some of the rain and sweat off his face. “Her name was Hien and she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her village got bombed because we thought they were hiding a guerilla unit. They weren’t, not until afterwards at least. Kim-Ly moved back there after she found out about her sister. She found me sleeping on her sister’s grave and didn’t kill me. Told me to run to the army and never come back. So I did.”

Jack swallowed. Chase smiled at him wearily, “There’s a war on, Lieutenant. Even the slaughter as someone as good and kind as Hien is permissible as long as it’s in the name of democracy.”

“Why do you do this then?” Jack asked quietly forcing his legs to keep moving.

Chase shrugged. “I chose a side. The only thing in the world that’s worth killing for is family. Well, I chose my family. I chose Davy Palmer and Michelle and Chloe. I could have chosen Kim-Ly and Hien and then it’d be you I was hunting. But I didn’t. Now I’m committed. I’ve got keep killing so my family won’t be killed.”

That was heavy shit coming out of a very, very young man. And all with a smile that said, ‘I’m gonna die young anyways. Don’t spare any pain for me.’ At that moment, Jack wished to God he’d found another way to pay off his college loans. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

The two of them helped each other up a steep ridge and down the other slick slope. The rain doesn’t let up. Some how Jack wasn’t surprised. Whatever demon-god-bitch thing was in charge around here liked it pissing from the sky. Chase would probably know the local deities. Just like he knew how to speak the language and the way back to Nevada in the pitch black night.

“Careful. Out of every hundred snakes out here, ninety-nine are poisonous.” Chase’s voice broke through the surprisingly loud sound of it raining against leaves.

Jack slowed, watching his steps now. “What does the other one do?”

Laughter clear in his voice the kid replied, “That one eats your ass whole.” Goddammit he hated this place.

More pics because that's what I do...

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 02:02:01 GMT

So, keep planning to update my story, but RL is hell. I've been blowing off steam and churning out graphics instead. I promise I'll update Raining Red as soon as I kick myself in the ass.

	I'm a closet DA fan. At least when it comes to Logan/Alec. But they do need love to.
	An experiment with texture. The final image didn't turn out so hot but I want to know if the texture worked.
	A quick, for fun image.
	Abby love.

Banners, etc. Introducing Supernatural

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 02:25:16 GMT

Let's make this clear. I am not possessive. Anytime someone uses my work I consider it a great compliment. But I don't know that compliment exists unless you tell me. So speak up, it makes me warm and fuzzy.

	This is just a fun little thing. I was playing with the background
	I like how the patterns turned out even if Sam's eyes are creepy.
	Because there isn't enough Mary love in SPN.
	An original piece that I didn't do by commission. Please use it and tell me about it.
	I want to put text in. Whoever comes up with the best text can have this banner with his/her text on it no strings attached.

Fic: Raining Red (IX)

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 14:05:46 GMT

Title: Raining Red (IX)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc. There are some very graphic scenes coming up.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: I suck at foreign languages an did the best to mimic Vietnamese as I could. If anyone knows better speak up.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part IIX

Michelle was comfortably tucked in Tony’s arms. They had claimed the mess hall for the moment. MREs sat unopened on the table. Neither of them had any appetite for solid chunks of grease and sawdust. Tony was content running his thumb over the fine bones in Michelle’s wrist. Neither of them would sleep until they both saw their wayward son back in his hootch.

“What’s Nina up to these days?” Tony asked quietly. He’d always had his suspicions about the woman, even when it was his bed she was in. Michelle had ended that decisively and forcefully with David Palmer’s death. The girl’s couldn’t risk having the platoon sergeant being lead around by the balls by anyone vindictive. As much as they took care of themselves they also needed to know they could trust the men in their camp. Tony sometimes wondered if that was the reason Michelle had replaced Nina with herself, bind who the men follow to the de facto leader of the women.

Michelle shrugged. “Fucking the lieutenant and staying out of the way. Chloe lost it at her a day ago. Something about a battery shorting out. I didn’t hear the whole story so we can safely assume it’s been handled. Kate’s with Wayne. I told Nadia, Milo, and Mike to keep it down but I doubt we’ll see any of them until tomorrow afternoon. Aaron’s worried that some of Buchanan’s boys are taking offense to us girls mixing with…You know.”

And he did. He and Michelle could fraternize all they wanted due to her Japanese grandmother. Those that cared put her in the same category as Tony’s own Italian-Hispanic background. Kate and Chloe were the problem. Luckily Chloe had taken to the young commando with green eyes and Davy Palmer had gracefully stepped aside, knowing that the other man needed her attentions more. It was Kate’s on-off fling with Wayne Palmer that was bringing tensions to head.

“I’ll just tell the boys to keep their guns close,” Tony sighed. “Dammit, Mishy, I don’t wanna have to tell them to cut it off ‘cause some fucking punk from Hicksville, Alabama don’t like it.”

“We won’t,” Michelle said firmly. “As soon as Chase gets back we’ll plan how to handle this. And if it means helping our little snake-eater out of the compound so he can play VC then we will.”

Tony honestly didn’t understand Michelle. Sometimes she was the gentlest woman in the world, with a smile and a soft touch. Other times, like now as she spoke calmly of having Chase once again murder another American GI, her heart seemed to have frozen solid as the shining ice crystals in the buckets where they kept the beer. He had no doubts that Chase would carry through if she asked. Obedience to Tony didn’t equate personal loyalty anywhere near what the kid had for the girls. Die for your sergeant, kill for your lover.

“You’d tell him to do that?”

“I wouldn’t have to, Tony. He’d do anything I ask.” She smiled at him in that sweet way that drew him in the first place. “He knows I love him.”

Wasn’t the clincher? Tony nuzzled her hair, inhaling the smell of sweat and rotting leaves that clung to them after patrol. As long as it was Michelle’s leg Chase rested against while they sat and watched the rain Tony would be at a disadvantage. Damn, it was a good thing she liked him enough to let him hold his rank.

“Don’t think about politics too hard,” she teased. “You’ll give yourself a nosebleed.” Her finger tapped the tip of his nose playfully.

The rain fell, bringing little drops of black night with it. Slowly the lights of the American firebase dimmed. Michelle sat up with one lamp on and a coverless paperback in her hands looking out into the dark. Her Doors tape droned in the background as Kate slumbered through it. Nadia was no where to be seen, still with Milo and Mike. Just under Jim Morrison Michelle could hear “Hey, Jude…Don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…” in the distance.

She looked down at her copy of The Feminine Mystique. It hadn’t survived the damp weather so well. Chase had thumbed through it a couple of times in the past but she had a quiet hunch that he couldn’t read well enough to understand it. Yet another thing to ask Chloe about. And the lieutenant. She’d have to talk to Nadia and Kate. Nina needed to be firmly separated from the officer before she had too much influence.

Far enough the lights of camp were nothing but fragments of white in the dark jungle, Chase hunkered against Jack’s side, shivering. His blanched fingers worked swiftly to wrap fragments of plastic tarp around the important pieces of their rifles. Water ran down his back and took the heat of his blood with it.

Next to him, Jack grimaced as the gritty soil seemed to seep through the knees of his pants. It itched something fierce. He hadn’t felt this miserably since that night at a boy scout camp in Maine when his tent had sprung a leak.

“There.” Chase wiped his hands off as best as he could on his sodden jacket. “That should do.” With a flick of his hand he wiped the moisture out of his eyes. Unlike Jack he didn’t wear a plastic poncho. Water beaded the oily paint on his face and every time he blinked it looked like he was crying.

Jack nodded. “Sure.” He shifted, trying to ease the burn in the back of his legs. Who knew a few ounces of water could feel so heavy? Or maybe it was how he was moving. Chase didn’t walk or trot, he moved at a smooth, hunched pace that helped him fade into the background. Did he even feel the water that ran into his eyes?

“We can keep moving…”

Shuddering at the thought Jack murmured, “Let’s just hunker down for the night. At least that way we can be warm.” Warm, yeah right. The kid was too skinny too produce enough body heat to matter.

Chase shrugged. “Fine. Just don’t breathe too loud.” The barely audible hiss made Jack look up. But before he could speak, a hand pressed gently over his mouth. Slowly the kid pointed towards a gap in the trees.

In the space between the black branches was the fine-boned face of a woman. Black smears altered the appearance of her golden skin and reminded Jack of a tiger. She bared her teeth at them, raising her AK-47 with intent.

“Lam uhhn jaw thoye,” Chase whispered quietly. “Can giup cho toi.” His hands slowly came up letting the his rifle just hang.

The woman growled softly then spat, “I speak American, pig bastard.”

Chase smiled. It wasn’t kind or even soothing. “I know Gypsy. You questioned Jamie. I saw the marks.” The woman shrugged. “So how many of you are there out there.”

“Enough to kill you and your officer, little tiger.” She smiled back the same way.

Holy shit. All the blood drained out of Jack’s face as the pucker factor suddenly hit red. Gypsy Queen was right there in front of him with her gun pointed at Chase’s chest. Her nose was fine and slightly pointed. Cute, it was cute. So cute on the fine little face with the stubborn little chin and petite body child-like in its slenderness. This woman had tortured American GIs to death with a smile on her face.

Chase was speaking again. Where had he learned Vietnamese? There was something soft in his tone. Jack’s stomach jerked. Shit. That was how he sounded when he spoke to Chloe. The barrel aimed at his chest wavered then went down. That bitch looked at him and said something else. It all sounded like the musical chatter of birds to Jack’s ears.

The not-quite-argument continued for several more minutes. Chase seemed to be winning judging by how the woman’s slanted eyes narrowed dangerously. Finally she snarled, “Pay attention Lieutenant man, your little tiger is mine. I free him. He is mine.”

“Fuck off, Dao Thi Kim-Ly,” Chase ordered harshly. “I don’t belong to anyone anymore.”

“All roar and no sound, Edmunds Ranger Chase.” Dao made a mocking half-bow and barked an order to the shadowy shapes of her men. Chase grabbed Jack’s arm and hauled him to his feet, walking rapidly in the opposite direction.

Fic: Raining Red (IIX)

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 13:56:41 GMT

Title: Raining Red (IIX)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc. There are some very graphic scenes coming up.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: I know Chase seems extremely young relative to everyone else but he's representative to a whole generation of kids who grew up too fast.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII

Jack wasn’t sure if he could stomach the next day’s patrol. Especially since he hadn’t slept at all the night before. The light show had kept him awake as Nina dozed peacefully at his side. In the light of day he knew he should feel guilty. But it was hard. In ten minutes his world had fallen apart and reassembled itself. It was harsher, brighter, louder, and more intense.

Teri was in the World, untouchable, unreachable, a fragment of a happy dream. Nina was here, now, and kind face among a crowd of hostile gazes. A day between seeing the dead boy and going out to do it again wasn’t enough. She made it bearable.

His life was breaking down into snapshots. Tony next to him, nodding in agreement with his plan, with a green streak of paint across his cheek. Though how his cheek had been in contact with the snake-eater was something Jack would love to know. More bodies, hanging from trees and laying on the ground. Blood and blonde hair. He felt cold but sweat stung his eyes.

What jarred him out of the fog was another addition to his rapidly expanding nightmares. “What the fuck!” Jack gaped in horror at the crucified body. Insects buzzed around the rotting pits that used to be an eyes and mouth. The flesh was dripping off like warm wax and leaving the rotting, sweet smell of death everywhere it fell. Splotches of rust covered the waxy brown skin that hadn’t been stripped away. It caked around the block, iron shrapnel through the corpse’s wrists and ankles.

Kate moaned softly as a few, grudging tears smeared her paint. “Jamie…God. It’s Jamie.” Her slightly curled fist was raised to her mouth. “Christ. Can we cut her down?”

Holding up a hand, Tony stopped anyone from getting closer. “Wait. It may be another trap. Let’s get Chase out here to look at her. Everyone spread out and take defensive positions.” The troops fanned out, forming a protective around their friend.

Jack grabbed Tony’s arm. “Why are we waiting? Cut the poor girl down.”

“It’s the Gypsy, sir,” Tony explained painfully. “If we leave the bodies behind she takes’em and booby traps’em. Chase will do what he can to cut her down. If nothing else he’ll wait for us to move away and trigger the trap so the body’s destroyed anyways.” He paused, looking the pink and green fluid that puddle beneath the impaled feet. “She’s not there.”

He turned out to watch the jungle with the others. Jack settled next to him, glancing over his shoulder. Kate was crouched next to Wayne Palmer. He had one arm around her shoulders as she cried silently and clutched her pistol in one hand. Michelle was white underneath the green and brown stripes. But she just held her radio harder.

Chase batted away the droning insects as he carefully prowled around Jamie’s face. Ignoring the stench that stuck to the inside of his nose and mouth he moved up and down the body. His fingers hover an inch away moving slowly. Trip wires could seem as fine as spider-silk. Getting blown to hell was not his idea of having a good time.

Tripwires were only one of the ways Gypsy could have rigged Jamie. Pressure plates or something similar would work just as well and be harder to find. He considered just tying a rope around her waist and pulling her off the cross. She’d decomposed enough that her wrists and ankles would pop free with a little bit of effort.

The rope could cause more damage to the already jellied looking abdomen. That mess wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. Ah hell, he didn’t want to be doing this at all. “Aaron, get me a block of C-4, det-cord, and a detonator. The rest of you didi right outta here.” He wiped the soapy feeling slime and dirt from his palms onto his pants. Reaching up he carefully freed her tags and tossed them to Tony.

“You can’t disarm it?” Kate asked quietly, glancing back at where he was crouched.

He shook his head. “Sorry, Katie. Looks like a pressure switch underneath her. I can’t reach it.” Aaron passed him the greasy paper wrapped block, a waxpaper pouch with the detonator, and a coiled length of det-cord. “How long?”

The red-head considered for a moment, then slowly replied, “I’ve timed it at thirty seconds a foot. That should give you around two and half minutes.”

“Take’em out Tony,” Chase said even as he nodded his thanks to Aaron. “I’ll take care of this.”

“I’ll stay,” the new lieutenant said quietly. Chase glanced over at him. Gently the older man insisted, “No one should be alone out here. Not even you.”

The snake-eater shrugged at Tony. “Okay.”

Mouthing, ‘Frag him,’ grumpily at the younger man, the sergeant hustled his people back into patrol formation and got them humping through the swamp once more. Chase chuckled to himself. Sometimes it was best not to take Tony too literally. His Italian temper got away from him.

“Go ahead and settle in,” Chase advised Jack. “I’ll be a minute.” Humming to himself he drew his bowie. His arm made an arch. The blade passed cleanly into Jamie’s gut stinking up the air with the wet smell of shit. Still humming Chase pushed the block inside the gaping hole leaving one end sticking out. More carefully he attached the detonator, sliding it in tight, then the det-cord.

Behind him Jack gagged and retched up something that sounded like water and crackers. “We’re gonna start moving soon, LT,” he told the officer pleasantly. “Just stay close.” He backed up, laying the cord as he went. Once he attached the metallic triggering mechanism. “Follow the light, Jamie. It goes to the good place.”

He hit the button and backed up and grabbed Jack’s arm. “Let’s book it.” The older man stumbled after him, passing to dry retch at the base of a tree. Chase let him. Poor bastard looked two steps to keeling over.

Like an insistent sheep dog the snake-eater kept nipping at his officer’s heels driving the man forward. Behind them a large thump signaled the detonation of the C-4 block and whatever booby-trap had been left. Chase smiled a little to himself. Whatever bit of spirit lingered near Jamie’s body was free now. He was happy for her. This place wasn’t one where he wanted to stick around after he bought the farm.

“Christ,” Jack muttered. His stomach was empty. To his surprise Chase dragged him down until they were both huddled protectively under the half-rotted rots of some tree that grew a little to close to the edge of a three foot drop. The kid was smiling, just a slight upward turn at both corners of his mouth. “Christ,” he repeated dragging the lanky body closer to his and some how jamming their rifles at an angle that wasn’t too uncomfortable.

He knew he was probably in shock. To his surprise Chase hunkered closer to him, offering him a canteen. As the water sloshed he could smell the fake sugar of the kool-aid that had been added. With a nod he took the plastic container and drained part of it before handing it back.

Chase finished off the lukewarm syrup. It was thicker than the others liked, even Chloe. But his ma made it this thick when she was sober enough to mix it some up. Jack didn’t seem to mind too much. He did give a choking laugh and whisper, “Your mouth is red.” Chase flicked out his tongue, trying to scrape off the remaining sweetness.

“Is it gone yet?” he asked. The sunscreen in his paint was a little bitter.

Jack spat on the edge of his sleeve. “Here. Lemme.” The kid tilted his head up to him like a small child for his parent. Biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood Jack scrubbed away the pink stains with his saliva damp cuff. Jesus, hadn’t he done this for Kim a thousand times before? And Chase, for all his pale eyes and quiet violence, couldn’t be much older than his daughter. Shit.

“There.” Jack roughly cupped the back of Chase’s neck. Then he was pulling him in closer, head beneath his chin, arms around the shoulders that weren’t quite finished growing. God, this kid was taking care of him. A fucking kid who should be home in the World with his mom telling her about college.

At first Chase was stiff as if he’d turned to ice. But Jack had field experience with teenage angst and drama. Chase didn’t have anything of that caliber left from his accelerated maturing. He ran his hand up and down the stiff spine while murmuring nonsense into the dark hair. Slowly the long legs folded themselves against Jack’s body and one arm eased hesitantly around the older man’s middle.

“Sokay kid,” came the soft whisper. “How long do we need to wait.”

Fitting his face more comfortably into Jack’s throat, Chase replied just as quietly, “Not much longer. “We’ll take a different route back to Nevada than the others. I just want to make sure Charley isn’t too interested in the loud boom noise.” His smile quirked to wry. Jack’s body heat was making him stickier than usual under his fatigues, but it was also damned comfortable just to curl up here against the solid body.

Eventually they had to move again. The crazy, little smile was re-absorbed into Chase’s painted on, expressionless face. He still ranged around Jack like the officer was a sheep in need of herding and he was the collie. But distinct bands of sweat stains had darkened the tiger-striped jacket. “Just a fucking kid,” Jack whispered to himself and kept slogging on.

Everyone in camp was subdued by memory of Jamie’s body. Kate was too upset to experiment with food that night so they were stuck with the cans of C-rations. No one blamed her. She and Jamie had been fucking inseparable when they came to Nevada. Now she just wanted to lick her wounds in private.

Wayne Palmer had brought her dinner. There weren’t any heat tabs so he was more or less shoving the ham and eggs down her throat cold. He sat next to her on the mess bench threatening to take her little plastic spoon and make airplane noises if she didn’t eat at least half.

She lifted the shit to her lips and chewed slowly, tasting the cold ham grease and rubbery eggs. It didn’t sit well in her stomach. Hot, black coffee solved that problem. Wayne’s fingers were loosing her hair from its strict braids and letting it fall to her shoulders. He was gentle, making sure not to pull on any knots or tangles. Finally she asked him, “Do you really think anyone cares?”

“About what?” he murmured in reply.

“About us. Or are we just a means to a body count?”

Two dark arms wrap around her waist and squeeze gently. “We care about us. That’s all that matters, Katie. We don’t need anyone in the World to give a flying fuck. They don’t know what we know. They can’t understand it. So we take care of each other.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed deeply. Exhaustion dogged all of them. But no one had the time to just give up and lay down. Wayne straddled the bench and pulled her snug back to his chest both hands on her belly. Leaning back she closed her eyes for just a moment

Fanfic: Raining Red (VI)

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 02:34:48 GMT

Title: Raining Red (VI)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc. There are some very graphic scenes coming up.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: I'm out of town for awhile but I promise more when I get back.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

Tony was settled comfortably in the mess with the radio turned up. Supply manifests were piled in front of him and he filled them out in his precise hand. Smoke trickled in from the open door. Chase was perched just under the protective lip of the roof watching the rain fall. His pack and lighter sat next to him and hot ash occasionally tumbled down his bare chest. In the twilight he was a white shape surrounded by gray.

“You turn the same shade of curdled milk your first time out,” the younger man reminded Tony gently. “Don’t be too harsh. He didn’t loose it and he didn’t interfere.”

The sergeant scratched at the paper. He had to be careful. It tore so easily in the damp climate. “I know.” The younger man nodded in satisfaction and inhaled. “Rick okay?”

“Just a scratch. It’ll teach him to be more cautious.” Chase knew the rain would be cool against his shirtless body and his scars were burning tonight. But he was also wary of being alone. Chloe was with the other girls and Nina was with Jack in their hootch. Tony was the only other person who might welcome his presence.

The older man snorted his opinion, “He’s a kid.”

Chase smiled over his shoulder, “Aren’t we all?”

Tony looked up. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m nineteen too.”

“Christ,” Tony muttered. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He shoved the papers to the side. “You’re a fucking flake Edmunds.”

One black eyebrow arched. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

With a sigh, Tony replied, “Do that.” He paused for moment. “Come here, kid.”

Chase looked up as he stubbed the cigarette out on the step. Picking up his pack and lighter he came inside, laying the items on the table. Tony straddled the bench so they faced each other. “Did you ever talk to anyone about Cambodia?”

“The officers who heard the report.”

Tony swore and stood violently. Chase eyed him strangely. Determined the older man put his arms around the lean shoulders and pulled him close. The younger man froze stiff. His eyes took on a skittish quality Tony hadn’t seen before so he just pushed the dark head to his shoulder. Chase allowed him to for a little less than a minute be before pulling away.

Not expecting anymore than the reluctant acceptance, Tony released him without protest. “I may not be David Palmer but I do care about my men, you included. And you don’t fool me as well as you think. You’re not okay, I mean worse than what passes for okay around here.”

“I manage,” Chase admitted grudgingly.

“I’ll talk to Chloe,” Tony pushed. “I know you like her…”

The younger man shrugged. “She knows what she wants. And trying to guilt her into something won’t help anybody.”

“Fine. But if you keep trying to get yourself killed we’re gonna have a problem.”

“I really don’t like problems, sarge.”

Tony grinned. “That’s what I’m depending on.”

Nina had given Jack the bottle of whiskey, telling him it was a gift and just to take it. He didn’t have the mind to protest for long. The liquor was good, a little sweeter than he liked but he was in no state to care. Its tingling warmth replaced the icy blocks of his stomach and heart.

The dark woman’s body was both warm and cold. His head was resting on the pillow resting on her lap as she sat at the head of his narrow bed. Her fingers ran through his short hair as he drank and, to his shame, cried.

She made soothing noises, wiping away the alcohol he clumsily spilled across his cheeks and chin along with the tears. The rain made a sharp tapping noise on the roof that reminded him of the shed where he would hide as a child. Chilled by the memory of why he had hid as well as the day’s events he drank more.

When the tears had stopped coming so intensely, Nina smiled down at him. Her fingers moved from his hair to massaging his temples and tracing his face. A happy sigh escaped him. Turning his face he pushed into the attention. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” she offered in a low, comforting voice without judgment.

“I…I don’t know if I can,” Jack admitted, nuzzling her palm. He knew this wasn’t a good idea but it was so fucking easy to be alone out here. He didn’t want to be alone.

The woman nodded in understanding. “The first time I killed a man I couldn’t stop crying. Aaron had to carry me back.”

Intrigued by the admission Jack tipped his head back to look at her. “Aaron?”

She ran finger over his chin. “The red-head who spends all his time around those brothers.”

“That does surprise me,” Jack admitted. “At my last post we kept having to separate the enlisted men. Someone always said something to the other on and next thing you know three white guys are after one negro…”

“That happens here. Usually it’s Wayne, Curtis, and Aaron against the artillerymen. Next thing you know the snake-eater and Chloe jump in on the brothers’ side and everything goes to hell.”

Jack chuckled. “That sounds…interesting.” The rhythm of her fingers was hypnotic. Each touch sent another tingle of warmth through his pleasantly heavy body. Her lips were soft pink, the color of Teri’s. How long since he’d been with his wife? Months, at least.

Nina was leaning down then her mouth was against his. It wasn’t Teri’s mouth, too much force and experience, but it was sweet nonetheless. He rolled up onto his own knees. Passivity wasn’t something he did well. Wrapping his arms around the thin body he pulled her to his chest and kissed her again. His tongue traced her lips until she opened her mouth. Pressing the advantage he pushed her down beneath him. Her fingers were digging into his back now and that felt just as good as having them on his face.

Some part of him repeated ‘BADIDEABADIDEABADIDEA!’ He ignored it and let her kiss him again. She tasted like skippy and whiskey. Like that first night the peanut butter settled his stomach. He drowned the life-blood smell that seemed to cling to him in her dark hair. His shirt was pushed off and her soft mouth was on his chest. It didn’t occur to him to return the favor as her hands moved lower.

Chase glanced through the window and rolled his eyes. Sure enough, Nina was naked, sprawled beneath Jack who was busy nipping at her throat. He was fucking tired. Tony had tired him out. Clomping up the steps he opened the door. Ignoring the sudden cessation of moans from the bed he sat on his own cot and untied his boots. “Pretend I’m not here.” Ripping off his socks he tossed them in the laundry pile and swung his legs up on his cot.

Nina said something to Jack and the moaning resumed. Chase wondered if the bed was going break as the springs groaned and the frame creaked. It was distant though and tinged with amusement he didn’t have energy for. Emotions sapped him. That’s why being with Chloe was easy, she didn’t expect any.

Three feet away it sounded like the two lovebirds were winding down, judging by Nina’s breathy noises. Idly the young man wondered if his total lack of arousal was because the woman was a snake or because he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. He’d like to think it was the first.

Jack made a broken noise. Chase’s gut clenched in empathy. Rolling he turned his back to give his hootchmate some privacy just in case he started crying again. Fuck. Burying his face in the stinking foam pillow he tried to make himself sleep.

Nina was dressing, whispering to Jack, “No, rest. I’ll see you at dinner.” Her boots slapped the floor. The door whined open and cracked shut.

Chase heard Jack shift uncomfortably on the bed. Cutting the whole awkward moment short he sighed. “Don’t worry about it, sir. We’re in cramped quarters. Privacy isn’t something we have the luxury of. I don’t see anything and you pretend I’m not here.”

“I…” Jack slipped into his pants and sat up to look at the lean man sprawled on the other bed. “Are you sick?”

“What makes you ask?” was the vaguely curious reply.

The officer shrugged. “You…just look sick.”

With a soft chuckle, Chase murmured, “I feel insulted.” He ran his hand down his visible but not prominent ribs. His back was a gray-white shadow as Jack reached up to turn on one of the lanterns. The light sparked and flared brightly, harsh yellow carving black shapes into the soft room. In the light the long scars running down Chase’s back and across his sides looked a shade paler than his skin.

He flinched when he heard Jack hiss. “Jesus…” The older man took a step closer to his hootchmate. “Jesus, Chase.” Buchanan had mentioned that the snake-eater had been the only survivor to escape from Cambodia but the total scope of that statement had impacted until now. And when it hit it landed like a sucker punch to the temple.

“They aren’t as bad as they look,” Chase sighed, groping around on the floor for his shirt.

“They were once,” Jack muttered. “Jesus Christ. Cambodia?”

“Where else?”

Jack realized he was staring and turned away. “I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.” Chase pulled on the t-shirt and put his boots back on. “I’ll be in the girl’s hootch if you want to go find Nina.” He reached for his knife but the hilt seemed too slippery to hold. It took an act of will to keep from letting the weapon clattered to the floor. Opening the door by tugging on the greening brass handle, he ran out into the rain. Water soaked through the cotton of his shirt and cooled the imaginary burning that sometimes came back to haunt him.

He passed Milo and Edgar Stiles who were fussing over the jeep. Milo was under the hood and Edgar was doing something inside. The round man called, “Hey, Chase?” Chase waved him off and kept moving. The steam rising from the engine hit a little to close to home.

The girls’ hootch was spilling yellow light onto the gray ground. He could hear Chloe’s distinctive voice so she must have convinced one of the men to cover the radio. A blanket was hung over the door so no one could see through the screen. Rather than risk getting shot he knocked, calling, “It’s Chase.”

“Come in,” Michelle replied. Her tongue poked out of her mouth as she angled her leg, tipping her foot on the bed and scraped the razor down it. Next to her on the floor were a bottle of shaving cream and a bowl of lukewarm water with suds already in it. Nadia was sitting indian-style on the bed across from Kate. They were racing to patch a badly torn, canvas cargo-sling.

Chase walked into the small room and settled on the third bunk with Chloe. She lifted her book in one hand and placed the pillow on her lap. He sighed happily, head on the pillow, feet hanging off the end of the cot. The edge of the book ended up resting on his chest. She kept reading even as he tipped his head to watch Michelle shave.

If he was any other guy he knew he’d be out on his ass, possibly with a bullet hole for decoration. But none of them saw him as a threat. He was more like a stray they had taken in and fed. Not that he’d ever give anyone a reason to think otherwise.

Michelle looked up at him. “So, has Nina succeded yet?”

“I walked in on the worst damn porn flick I’d ever seen,” he replied dryly. “Complete with the creaking springs and moaning. I couldn’t stomach it for long. It was either leave or hurl.”

Nadia reached over and patted his knee. “Poor baby. We’d let you bunk here if the captain wouldn’t throw a fit.” Tipping his head up he gave her a small smile.

Chloe’s fingers settled in his hair again and teased out the short curls. A happy rumble rolled out of the lean chest. Kate laughed quietly. “Very cute.” She turned back to Nadia and their quiet conversation. It was one the reasons Chase enjoyed being allowed into their space. The gentle ebb and flow of their conversations reminded him of home.

Fic: Through Time and Glass

Fri, 06 Jul 2007 14:15:44 GMT

Title: Through Time and Glass
Author; asp0_5
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jack/Chloe
Warnings: Post Day 6, brief crossover
Summary: There will always be something between them. For now it's a pane of glass and a thousand years.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: This is a brief snippet of a prologue I'm writing for another one of my epics in progress.

Look but never touch. Chloe doesn’t appreciate being touched. He can see it in the slight grimace on her lips and the way she smoothes her hair behind her ear with one hand. Morris is making her uncomfortable. She shifts in her chair, running her fingers over her keyboard like it’s a dozing cat.

It’s tempting just to walk into the small cyber café and tell Morris to fuck off. He knows Chloe doesn’t like being crowded. He knows she hates other people touching her first. He knows that loud noises agitate her into pacing and bad temper. He knows that she’s a little paranoid, a little claustrophobic, and a lot obsessive-compulsive. He knows why she is the way she is.

Leaving his cup of bitter coffee to become tepid slush, he slides on his new leather jacket and dodges the cars rushing through the street. Through the clear pane of glass he can see her. She’s pulling rhythmically at her hair now, worked up but showing it the only way she can. Doesn’t Morris know that he shouldn’t do this to her? Every time he pushes past her comfort level she gets stressed. It can take hours for her to relax.

Too easy to push through the door and stand nearby. She’d calm down faster, he knew. She likes having him near her. They’re comfortable together in a way he hasn’t been since Chase left. He once wondered if Chloe and Chase were related, cousins maybe. The way they both quirked their lips in resignation was the same.

He presses his hand against the window pane, framing her face with his thumb and index finger. Oh, Chloe. He smiles involuntarily at the mulish look on her face. That one he knows well. She’s digging in her heels now.

“Jack?” A gentle, accented voice pulls him away from the window. A slim man with dark hair, a worsted suit, and thick framed glasses stands patiently. “It’s time to go, Jack.” He repeats gently.

Jack nods. “Yeah. I know, Doctor. I’m coming.” Zipping up his jacket he stuffs his hands into his pocket and follows the other man to the blue police box sitting incongruously on the corner. The Doctor promised to bring him back immediately if anything went wrong with the pregnancy. Promised to fix the only woman left he loved if her own body tried to betray her.

Promises. He looks back through the window before he steps through the door and feels the golden hum of the living ship. The TARDIS reminds him of Chloe. Both are bitchy, cross, and brilliant. And at the end of the day, TARDIS loves her doctor and Jack hopes Chloe loves him.

“How does Xinyon 43 sound?” the Doctor asks, gently teasing Jack up from his dark mood.

“Depends.” Jack shakes himself. If he focuses on the now, on the adventure, he can forget the holes inside of him for a little bit. “Are they going to shoot at us?”

Fic: Raining Red (VI)

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 01:17:09 GMT

The whump of the chopper blades shook Jack’s chest. Each breath he took vibrated. Next to him the snake-eater hung his legs precariously over the side of the open door so they dangled in mid-air. One of his boots was braced on the struts and his shoulder was tucked against the inside of the chopper’s shell. It made Jack sick to his stomach.

Wolfe, the pilot, smiled at Jack over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. These bastards know what they’re doing.”

“Good to know you have faith in us,” Tony growled. He hung out the other door, rifle balanced on his lap.

Banking the bird, Wolfe replied, “Of course I do, Almeida. Someone’s gotta cheerlead you grunts.”

The sergeant gave pilot a venomous look. “Stuff it where the sun don’t shine, sir.”

Wolfe laughed. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you and you’re new boyfriend.”

Tony gave him the bird. Chase rolled his eyes and leaned further into the chopper. He watched the jungle glide beneath them like a rushing stream of green, gray, and yellow. The cool breeze that ran through the interior of the Huey carried off some of the wet weight in the air. It dried the sweat that always seemed to sheen everyone. Jack could feel the caked salt and oil on his cheeks.

Nadia was braiding her fly away hair across from him. The other women already had their own hair up in tight braids pinned securely to their heads. With the helmets on and the black and green paint on their faces they looked like any other infantry grunt. Kate helped her pin-up the braid.

“Why don’t they just cut it?” Jack wondered out-loud.

The black private sitting next to him laughed. His jacket said PALMER. “Don’t kill him, girls.” Turning the officer he continued, “Because it’s what they have, sir. ‘Round here you keep the little things.”

Jack considered that as Nadia strapped on her helmet. Sure enough the ungainly metal pot hid her thick, black mane as well. It was hard now to see the usually lithe bodies that graced Nevada during peaceful moments. In their heavy jackets and bulky web gear with weapons in hand the women looked just like the men. Jack was sitting right across from Nadia but he couldn’t tell her from a light-boned man. And if couldn’t then neither could Charley.

They were soldiers. Whatever was soft and weak about themselves they’d sacrificed to the bloody rice paddies and sodden jungle. Every veteran in the chopper respected that. And Jack was starting to do the same. He was reminded of the stories of the Amazon’s who cut off their right breasts in order to use a bow. Cut away part of their feminity to fight.

“Here we go,” Wolfe warned from the cockpit. The chopper dropped in the air. Jack suddenly regretted the greasy pancakes he’d eaten earlier. His head spun as they continued to fall through the air. The floor jerked hard and something hot and acidic rose up into Jack’s mouth.

“SWALLOW!” Palmer bellowed into his ear. Jack obeyed automatically. It burned on the way back down. He turned to the side to see the snake-eater pushing himself over the side of the chopper and falling. Palmer shoved him hard and he tumbled after. Closing his eyes he braced for death.

The ground was hard. Jack found himself staring up at the bottom of the chopper unable to breath. He’d gone deaf. The wind burst across his face but he couldn’t hear it. Then his world tilted and he was upright. There were hands on the back of his neck pushing his head down. A solid thing that looked like a human tiger, only in shadows of green and brown, was pulling him along and keeping his head down.

Suddenly the audio switched back on and slammed into his head. The chopper was pulling away. Tony was shouting at the men, spreading them out. Jack lifted his own gun and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough the RTO was behind them. Michelle clutched her carbine, lips pressed into a determined line. His racing heart slowed as he crouched down to cover Edmunds. “Everyone make it?”

“No twisted ankles,” Kate called back. “Just some bruises and scrapes.”

“Sergeant?” Jack verified.

“We’re clear, sir,” Tony responded more quietly, looking out from the clearing into the thick jungle. “I’d let Edmunds take point. This is a free fire zone and Fuck Charley knows it.”

Chase smiled briefly at Jack who nodded to him. Reaching into his pocket the snake-eater pulled out the stained wrap he used to cover his hair and tied it tight. Gripping his rifle he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The moist rot of in country filled his nose and throat. Gnarled trees leaned over him, offering cover and a place to hide in their shadowy roots. His boot rose from the sticky loam and took the first step. Then another. It was a strain to hear the impact dulled as it was. Like the Cheshire Cat he crept into the shadows, leaving Jack only his smile and oddly colored eyes.

The rest of the troops strung out at the ready. Jack stayed close to Michelle. Officers always stayed close to the radio. Tony was efficient, sliding up and down the line despite the organic litter piled everywhere. The sun beat down through the canopy laying thick shadows and blinding light in eerily irregular patches. Breathing felt like drowning in the humidity.

Jack thought he was floating above the ground. His head seemed too light and his body too heavy. Sweat soaked through his shirt and jacket. It itched something fierce but he couldn’t’ take his hands off his gun. Ahead on the path that they were tromping the flash of stripes could be seen. “Follow him,” Tony said softly. The officer wondered where his sergeant found the air to talk.

The cautiously grouped soldiers turned on their lieutenant’s order. It led them to a fast-flowing stream about twenty feet wide. The water was a dark, murky brown with sluggish swirls of a lighter tan scattered through it. On the opposite bank their point man waited patiently. His lower half was darker than his upper have and his boots were still draining.

“Cover your crotch,” Michelle advised Jack as she lifted the radio up higher, loosening the straps and raising the rectanguer pack until he was braced against the top of her helmet.

Jack propped his rifle on his shoulder. “Why?”

The red-headed corporal grinned. “There’s a nasty little fish who’ll swim up a man’s dick and stick out its spikes and make itself right at home.” Jack paled and the others chuckled. “Just stick your hand over the important pieces and don’t piss.”

The hard swallow caught in Jack’s throat. Pressing his hand against his crotch he waded into the lukewarm water. With each stepped it lapped higher up his leg until his hand was covered. Next to him he saw that Tony was doing the same thing and felt less stupid. Seems this wasn’t a prank on the new guy after all.

The women grinned at each other, able to use both hands thanks to their foresight in placing a cloth barrier over delicate places. “Yes, laugh it up,” Adam muttered sourly to Chloe. She just smirked back and Extended her hand so Chase would pull her up the slick bank. Michelle came up behind her, letting the radiopack slid down to its original position. Leaning down the man grabbed her waist and helped her the rest of the way up. After her he grabbed Jack’s forearm and so on until everyone had made it safely up the bank.

With Tony’s shoulder in his grasp, Chase leaned forward. “There’s an ambush up ahead. You want to deal with it or avoid it?”

“Deal,” the sergeant replied quietly. “Take Adam, Curtis, Aaron, and Nadia from the left. I’ll take Milo, Chloe, Rick, Teddy, and Sean up from the front. The lieutenant can take Kate, Michelle, Mike, and Wayne from the right. Drive them towards the middle and it’s a duck shoot from there.”

Chase nodded. “As you say, sarge. I’ll pass word to the lieutenant. You’ll get the credit.” Tony smiled tightly at the younger man. Some days it was just easier to let Chase’s words remain what they were. Face-value no more no less. It was too easy to read into tones that weren’t there simply because the younger man had no tone left. Just like the rough catch in his throat that Tony hadn’t heard in anyone else but meant nothing. As long as Chase knew his place Tony didn’t have any problems with the man.

Jack paused when Michelle touched his shoulder. “They’re passing on down the line, sir,” she murmured. “Charley’s planning to ambush us so we’re turning it back on them.”

The officer frowned, “How can we be sure they don’t know we know?”

“The snake-eater spotted them. If they spotted him, he wouldn’t be standing.” She shrugged. “Tony’s dividing us up ‘cause he’s got more experience with the men, sir.” Shifting one of the straps she continued, “I’ll stay with you, LT. RTO never leaves the officer. Not around here.”

He nodded and saw Palmer and Mike Doyle making their way through the ranks tailed by the blonde medic. The sergeant herded them forward gently, hushing the men quietly as he passed. “Sir,” he gestured the other two men and woman to Jack. “We’re going to spread out and hit’em from three directions. I’m taking the first group from the left. Chase is coming in from the back. You could hit their right flank from the ridge up ahead.”

Jack would never admit his relief at having the decision handed to him in his first live combat situation. “Sounds good. Don’t wheel out too far coming around. I don’t want to get stuck up there alone.”

Tony nodded, “Yessir. My group will start shooting first?”

“Of course, sergeant,” Jack found himself smiling at the other man’s thin veneer of obedience. “Tony, I’m not an idiot who needs to be led around by the nose. If something needs to be done, just tell me.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened slightly. Respectfully he answered, “Yessir. Just stick close to Mishy. She’ll take care of you. First time out is when we’re most likely to loose a cherry.”

Jack nodded, “Done. Come on, boys…and girl, let’s head up that ridge and find a decent vantage point.”

Mike smiled slightly and shifted the M-60 put one hand just under Michelle’s pack and helping her keep her balance as they made their way as softly as possible up the loam layered rise. Jack scrambled up to his side, placing his hand next to the machine gunner’s. When he slipped he ended up accidently groping her ass. Red crawled up his sweat-beaded cheeks that had nothing to do with the humidity.

Palmer smirked at his officer’s discomfort. Michelle managed to fry him with her gaze even as she gave Jack a sweet, forgiving smile. They’re breathing seemed too loud despite the persistant chatter that was the jungle’s voice. Jack was terrified the VC would some how hear it and he’d blow it his first time out and get someone killed. The fear was a rock solid, cold weight in his gut even as his lower body tightened in a feeling he didn’t recognize.

A warm hand curled on around his shoulder. Michelle gestured in a pushing down motion with her palm. Mike and Palmer started hunkering down and Jack found himself doing the same. The pace slowed to a painful crawl where every movement was carefully considered before it was made. It was frustrating and amplified the feeling of sweat-laden cloth chafing and straining to breathe low and soft.

A bead of sweat fell into Michelle’s dark eye. It watered and she blinked slowly, letting one tear creep out to save her vision. Just above the sound of the trees and wildlife she could hear the twangy sound of oriental being spoken. It seemed strange that those setting up the ambush would be chattering. She hoped Chase was right and they weren’t about walk into a VC stronghold or a stash being retrieved.

Settled on her belly with the sharp edges of dried, native leaves pushing up into the tender mass of her breasts she shifted the radio over to her side. Jack crawled up next to her, still red from slipping. He extended the map, silently pointing out their coordinates to her. She nodded and checked her freq. Lifting the transmitter to her mouth she pressed the button and said softly, “Las Vegas, this is Patrol do you read?”

On the lowest volume setting, so low even the girls could only hear it when they were right next to the radio and the men couldn’t hear it at all, Nina’s voice replied, “Patrol this is Las Vegas, we read you.”

“Our 10-20 is…” Michelle consulted the map, “AR702-004. We’re about to engage, charley. I repeat we are about to engage.”

“Roger, Patrol,” was the cool response. “Should I order air support?”

Jack shook his head and Michelle relayed, “Negative. Do not send in air support. I repeat, negative. Do not send in air support.”

“10-4.”

“Patrol over and out.” Michelle drew a deep breath and slung the radio back on. She dragged her carbine forward so she could shoot from the prone position. Next to her, Jack started to wind the strap of his M-16 around his arm. She stopped him and re-wound it looser. He smiled sheepishly but she shook her head in reassurance.

It was almost as embarrassing as grabbing the poor woman’s ass. Here she was babysitting him and still she managed to be kind. His hands were shaking. Hers were steady as if she’d been doing this all her life. And in a way she had. She couldn’t be much older than his own twenty-seven. In fact he’d lay good money that she was, at most, twenty-four or twenty-five. The sergeant, Tony he corrected, and the red-head corporal whose name he didn’t know were closest to his age.

A scream cut across the heavy air and turned spines to ice. Michelle went white and put her hand on Jack’s back. “Don’t.” He stilled. Then to his utter bewilderment the woman kneeled up and yelled something that sounded like the old Rebel war cry. Taking a deep breath she repeated sound. A second voice joined hers and then the sharp chatter of rifles shredded the relative peaceful jungle.

Michelle was back on her belly with the butt of the carbine tucked tight into her shoulder. Jack could she the gun shuddered as her finger squeezed the trigger in short bursts. He tried to fire his own gun and squeezed the thin crescent of metal. Nothing happened. Puzzled he looked down and swore. Switching off the safety he aimed again.

In the shallow depression below he could see the body of a VC man flopping like a fish. He couldn’t see any others. But as he kept looking shapes became more distinct. Though he wasn’t up very high there was enough elevation to see the ragged line of American GIs taking cover as they drove four or seven armed natives towards the ridge. That sound Michelle was being made in various pitches across the line.

Jack jumped as the deafening pounding of a machine came from behind. Just above them, partially covered by a thick tree trunk, Mike neatly picked off anyone not dressed in fatigues. By that time only two men had made it to the slight rise. One of them had dropped his gun. Jack could his fingers tensed like claws as he scrambled up the slope. His black hair looked kind of like straw and he was all skin and bones, barely out of his teens. The wide black stared up at the lieutenant, blinded by terror.

Automatically, Jack put a three round burst in the kid’s chest. Puffs of blood rose up and stained the off-white shirt dark red. Blood foamed out of the screaming mouth as the seizing figure rolled down the slope. Tears ran down the brown face as he reached the bottom, moaning and trying to crawl back up.

Walking towards the officer and his group, Chase paused long enough to look down at the pathetic figure tugging at his pant leg. The green eyes looked back up at Jack then down again. He lowered himself to the ground, an arm around the dying kid. With a kind smile he said something in Vietnamese. The kid sobbed in relief and put his arms around the American, hiding his face in the painted neck.

Chase rubbed circles on the heaving back with one hand. The other gripped the knife he placed at the place on the spine where head met shoulder. For a moment the muscles in his arm and shoulder strained then the metal jerked cleanly up into the kid’s brain, killing him instantly.

Carelessly the Green Beret let the body fall as he stood up. Putting his boot between the corpse’s shoulders he yanked the knife free and wiped it on the bloody shirt. Jack turned his head to the side and threw up splattering the sleeve of his uniform with sour bile, half-digested pancakes, and black coffee.

Tony looked around the again quiet space in the looming jungle. “Get the weapons and the bodies together.” The others obeyed silently. Kate leaned over Rick, dressing the deep graze on his thigh. Chase started dismantling and crushing essential parts of the guns. Nadia joined him.

Michelle slid down the ridge, dragging Jack with her by his arm. The officer was white under his tan. He looked around the clearing, at the blood being absorb by dead plants, at the twisted bodies and grimacing faces of the dead VC. One of them moaned. Chloe growled to herself and kicked the body over. A man old enough to be her grandfather looked up at her with dulling eyes. Drawing her knife she drew it across the wrinkled, baggy throat. She dodged the small geyser of blood and waiting until the gurgling stopped before grabbing one foot and dragging the body over to the pile.

“No women,” the other black man, not Palmer, in the squad reported to Tony.

The sergeant shrugged. “That’d be too much to hope for.” He turned to the pile of six broken bodies, laying their like carcasses heaped at a slaughterhouse. “Let’s get some rope and string these fuckers up.”

“What?” Jack’s voice sounded odd, even to him. His pupils were blown wide in his pale eyes. Michelle was making sure he didn’t unbalance himself while he trembled and clutched his rifle tightly with both hands.

“Gypsy left us a few presents so we decided to start returning the favor, sir,” Mike said almost sympathetically to the officer.

Jack was too far into shock to do anything more than nod. He knew he should protest when Chase, Palmer, and one of the men he didn’t know started using a single rope to bind the bodies at the ankles in a chain. Chloe, Tony, and the red-haired corporal stared on the other three.

When their two gruesome chandlers were finished, two sturdy branches were located. The chains of bodies were tied there to dangle with their heads pointed to the soft jungle floor. An ace of spades was shoved in the mouths of the two bottom most corpses. The blood hadn’t even had time to coagulate before the job was done. The scarlet liquid dripped down off the bodies carried by gravity to the absorbent ground.

Kate put her arm around the officer’s waist and squeezed gently. “They’re dead,” she told him tenderly. “They don’t care anymore.” Jack made a choked noise. He was stunned to here such a callous statement coming from the gentle medic. He threw up again next to her feet. Far from being offended, Kate gave him a canteen with a pack of kool-aid mixed in and told him to drink it all.

Fic: Raining Red (V)

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 02:06:20 GMT

Title: Raining Red (V)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc. There are some very graphic scenes coming up.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: In search of beta. Comment if you're interested.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV

Corporal Aaron Pierce had already started brewing the coffee by the time the other men in his hootch had woken. PFC Wayne Palmer was first to the pot as usual. He smiled wearily at the red-head. “Morning, Aaron.”

“Morning, Wayne,” Aaron answered calmly, tipping the pot for his friend. “Enjoy the light show last night?”

“Slept right through it,” Wayne admitted sheepishly. “Have you seen the new officer yet?”

Aaron shook his head negative. “Chase is showing him the ropes.” With a bitter snort, Wayne expressed both his opinion of the idea and the man. “Wayne, Chase did everything…”

“He could have gone after David, he didn’t,” Wayne cut him off. “So don’t go feeding me that bullshit about him doing everything he could.”

Knowing there was nothing else he could say, Aaron backed down. Wayne had been in-country for as long as the rest of them. But his brother had protected him from much of what went on. As much as it was possible to be protected from. He didn’t understand just how badly Chase had wanted to go and why he couldn’t.

The two continued to sip their coffee in silence as Curtis roused himself and shook Doc Besson awake. They joined the other two just outside the hootch and watched the gray mist rise up from the jungle to wreath the rising sun. Red sunrise. Wayne’s mind unwillingly went back to the time when he and David found Chase sitting on the stoop watching a similar sunrise. The snake-eater had smiled up at them and murmured, “Blood sun. Someone’s dieing today.” That had been the morning of the patrol where David had been snatched and presumably killed.

“Someone is going to die today,” Curtis observed quietly, also watching the sun.

Doc sighed. “That’s superstitious BS. You shouldn’t listen to Edmunds. He’s been in the boonies too long. Whatever’s out there has gotten into his blood.”

“And that’s not BS?” Wayne muttered. “There’s nothing out there other than poisonous snakes, buzzing things, and Charley.”

Shaking his head, Doc insisted, “I’ve seen it before. The combat stress gets to some guys. They spend more and more time and patrol and one day they just go feral and don’t come back.”

Curtis raised an eyebrow in incredulity, “That’s just a myth made up from some guys on sentry duty who got tired of jacking each other off.” His breath stirred the heavy air and sent tendrils of steam out at the others.

“Maybe not.”

Aaron spilled his coffee into the fire as Wayne managed to splash his own wrist with the hot liquid. Both Doc and Curtis spun to face the speaker. Chase didn’t respond with so much as a twitch of his lips. “Lieutenant’s orders are to prepare for a patrol at 0800. Planning is at 0715. Be there.” He turned and walked towards the small fire where Adam, Rick, Nina, and Chloe were sharing a pot off coffee.

Curtis sighed to himself as Wayne glared after the retreating figure. “You’ve got to stop blaming him. Davy wouldn’t have wanted this.” When the other black man made to brush him off he caught his shoulder. “Bro, don’t do this. Davy loved that quiet fucker like family. He’s never done nothing to you or your brother but do his best to help. Not like those other rabbits, no offense.” Both Aaron and Doc waved off the comment.

“Edmunds left my brother to that bitch,” Wayne shot back hotly. “He left him…”

“Davy told him to take you,” Curtis snapped. “He went to get Davy but your brother told him to take care of you. And he did. And he’s still doing even though you treat him like some sort of leper.”

Pushing at his friend’s shoulder, Wayne stalked back to the hootch muttering, “I don’t need this shit.”

Aaron stopped Curtis from following with a light pat on the arm. “Let him go. He’s as stubborn as his brother. But he’s no fool. He’ll see what he needs when the time comes.”

Chloe sipped her coffee and found herself leaning against Nina’s side as the other woman leaned against her. The damp are left a chill on her bare skin that was used to the heat of California. Nina was always warm and also used to hotter climates. They didn’t have to like each other to take comfort in the simple presence of another warm body. Sometimes that desire was almost enough to send Chloe back to Chase’s bed, knowing he wouldn’t refuse her or ask anymore than she offered.

But she also knew that the closer she got the more dangerous he would be to her. She’d proven that once with an ill fated venture with the chopper jockey Morris O’Brien. Just because they shared a last name didn’t mean they were compatible, she’d quickly discovered. After that she kept herself out of anything that could be more than a one-night stand while on leave. And she did give a damn about Chase but not the sort of damn that made it worth risking what Michelle had risked for Tony.

“What do you think of the cherry?” It took a moment for Chloe to realize Nina was addressing her.

“Um…I donno. He seems…like a cherry. We’ll see if he survives patrol.”

Adam spoke up from the other side of the small fire. “They say someone’s gonna die today.”

“Red sun?” Nina asked. He nodded. “Did Edmunds say anything.”

Chloe shook her head. “No. He would have told me if it was a blood sun.” She raised the scalding coffee to her lips. “Though lately he’s been acting strange…well stranger than usual.” She didn’t say she was scared for him. He’d promised her once he’d never tell her the day the red sun rose and he was the one who would die. Now, she just wanted to know.

Finishing her coffee she left the soothing heat of Nina’s body and slogged through camp to the fire on the other end where the remaining nurses gathered. The new officer was sitting on the stoop with them but Chase was no where to be seen. “Damn that pig-headed, swamp-fucking...” Looking around she took a deep breath. He was sulking somewhere she just knew it.

The road continued through the infantry’s camp into artillery camp. Wolf-whistles followed her sweaty progress. “Go fuck yourself, dickhead,” she shouted back when one canted his hips forwards and made an explicit suggestion.

“Why don’t you do it for him, sweetheart,” another one suggested getting a little to close.

Chloe drew back, cocking her fist tightly just like Chase had taught the girls. “Back off.”

The jerk stepped closer, grinning from ear to ear. “Whatcha you gonna do, little girl? Hit me?”

“Okay.” Chloe threw her fist forward putting her body weight behind it. The punch slammed into the bastard’s stomach hard enough to make him vomit. She neatly side-stepped the foul mess and pivoted her leg up to drive it into the heaving back. The man tumbled down and hit the puddle mud and bile.

Before a full-fledged fight could break out the sound of a gun being primed bounced through the wet air. “Next fucker who touches her eats lead.” Chase raised the M-16 to his shoulder. Everyone shut up. The Green Beret moved over to Chloe’s side, lowering the gun. “Come on, Chlo.” Without question she took his hand and started walking back to the infantry area.

“You stay in camp from now on,” Chase ordered quietly. “Those bastards won’t hesitate to hurt you or the other girls. And as much as you hate to here this, the boys will take care of you. You can take’em on two or three at a time but they’ll come at you five or six.”

Her free hand ran down his arm in apology. “I was looking for you.”

“I’m here.”

“I know that now,” she snapped. “I was worried. Dawn was red.”

Understanding trickled into his eyes. “I’m not going to die today, Chloe. None of us are going to die.”

She nodded, repeating the motion down his arm. The same arm reached up and eased around her waist. Sighing Chloe glared at him. “This isn’t softening me up.”

“Of course not,” he replied blandly. Her hand rested lightly on his hip. “Who’s on the radio today?”

“Nina,” she sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you’d prefer she’d be where you can see her with the new officer around.”

“Don’t chew on it,” he murmured. Patting her ass, he gestured, “Go get your web gear.”

Tossing a glare over her shoulder she muttered, “I’m going to bite you one of these days.”

“Anytime,” he teased.

She ducked into the hootch and reached up to the wall hooks for her field gear. The ragged blanket was dragged over the doorway so she could strip down to her bra. No one bothered with underwear at camp. It was just more laundry that wasn’t necessary. However, wading through the swamps wasn’t something she wanted to attempt with just the protection of her fatigues. Pulling on the snug, military issue briefs Michelle had lifted from the base supply depot while on leave, she slipped into the lovingly patched fatigue pants, a t-shirt, and her stained fatigue jacket buttoned up over that.

The t-shirt was little more than portable bandages to be discarded at first notice. She put on the heavy socks and tightened her boots, blousing her pants to keep something from wiggling in. She settled and buckled her web gear with the bayonet and ammo pouches. The women carried just as much as the men. The last officer had tried to order them to lighten their loads. They’d just hiked their rucks higher and carried the same things.

Kneeling on the bed she started packing her ruck. Matches, jungle chocolate, salt tablets, cigarettes and her lighter, sewing kit, packages of kool-aid, and c-rations. She taped her tags and strapped her watch on one notch tighter than usual. Her poncho was placed at the top of her ruck followed by the spare radio battery. Adding that to her gear she felt the familiar weight beginning to settle on her shoulders.

Outside the others were beginning to gather with their own burdens. Tony popped the lid of crate of ammo and she joined Rick and Adam in packing her pouches. Already her back was starting to ache. She attached the three, full canteens to her belt.

Doyle was acting machine gunner and added the M-60 and belts of ammo to his load. Kate was carrying of medical supplies plus her regular load though she exchanged the rifle for a .45 pistol. Her shoulders never healed in between bearing that weight day after day. The skin there was black and purple and it seemed permanent.

Tony was helping Michelle lift the radio onto her back. Wayne took the scrambled radio. When Jack finally appeared the sixteen had gathered in a loose circle and were busy tightening each other’s gear. Nina was there for ‘moral support.’

She not-sashayed up to Jack. Before he could say anything her hands were on him, checking his gear. Her fingers lingered across his hips and chest. He drew a sharp breath and she smiled at him. “Relax, Lieutenant. I promise not to molest you.” Her hands were on his vest. The buckle sagged at first then she tightened it with a rasping noise. As she finished her hand dragged lightly over his crotch. He hissed, his eyes locking with her.

“Come back,” she whispered. Her voice was husky and low speaking of bedrooms far away from this swamp.

Licking his dry lips he croaked, “I will.”

“Whore,” Nadia muttered, hefting her rifle. Mike put his hands on her fragile shoulders. His fingers pressed against the straps gently. She let herself lean back just enough he supported some of the load she carried.

Chloe shifted her weight from foot to foot. Chase was still next to her. Though he wore web gear he skipped the ruck and carried a silenced .22 ‘hushpuppy’ along with his rifle. He traveled light and seemed to need less than the others. It didn’t make sense, it just was.

Staked out next to the mess, Doggy San and John Wayne perked their ears up and wagged their tails happily. Curtis scratched their ears and murmured softly to them. Dumbshit’s tail started thumping as well. “Watch out for Nina and Doc,” the dark man ordered his dogs. “Take good care of them.” He reached over and patted Dumbshit’s head. “And you keep out of trouble, Dummy.”

Aaron smiled, “Do they actually know what you’re saying?”

“Of course,” Curtis replied seriously. “VC dogs are the smartest in the world. I took these boys and girl out of a VC village as puppies.” He smiled at his wagging pack. “They know exactly what I’m sayin’.”

There was general laughter from the gathered group. Tony took the chance to squeeze Michelle’s hand. She turned slightly to smile at him. The heavy radio weighed her down but she’d never faltered. Not even at the beginning when she’d gotten back to Nevada only to collapse into a heap. It was something she was grimly proud off. The former RTO had fallen a lot. She never would.

“Here come the goddamn flyboys,” Tony muttered. “Fuck, the cherry better stop staring at Meyers’ ass and get over here.”

“Chase will deal with the lieutenant,” Michelle sighed. “Tone…You’re not Davy.”

Tony’s shoulder’s stiffened at the gentle reprimand. He pulled away and went stood by himself. She sighed. Him and his damn pride. She winced as the chopper jockeys, Morris O’Brien and Spencer Wolfe, sauntered up. They thought just because they had their wings every woman should be falling at their feet. Fuck that in her opinion.

“Sir,” the snake-eater whispered. Jack shook himself and turned to face the younger. “The bird boys are here. You’re going to have to show them the maps and tell them when we insert and pick-up.” His pale mouth peeled back slightly from paler teeth.

Jack sighed. “You’re enjoying this too much.” The snake-eater shrugged. “Fine. Take the map and show the squad where we’re going.” He passed the well creased packet over. The other man tilted his head in assent.

The lieutenant smiled reluctantly at his self-appointed baby-sitter. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves and temper he walked over to the crate where the pilots were waiting.

“It’s just a quick trot,” Chase assured the others as they squatted around the map. “Nothing we haven’t done before. Tony,” he looked up at the sergeant, “I’ll keep the cherry from killing us. You’re in control. Just let him think he’s in charge.” Wary smiles flicked through the variously colored eyes.

Even Tony quirked his lips. “Edmunds…”

“I’m not undermining you, sergeant. I’ve already lost Davy. I’m not loosing you.” Wayne looked at the pale operator. “None of you.” Chase looked over them. “I’ve been responsible for the loss of twelve men. No more. You do as Tony says. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Chloe laid her hands on his back. “That’s not an invitation for you to get yourself killed, Chasey.” Her hands slid up into his hair and kneaded the short strands anxiously. No one commented. Everyone had that apprehension. Friends and lovers could be snatched away as quickly as you took a breath. You committed to memory what you could of those you had.

Chase turned and caught her hands. “No one’s dying today. No one. I promise all of you.” He touched Michelle’s arm. She smiled shakily at him and glanced at Tony. “I’m not going to take us anywhere hot. And if the FNG tries to take us there, I’ll get him so confused he’ll have to follow me.”

Fic: Raining Red(IV)

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 18:44:27 GMT

Title: Raining Red (iV)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: In search of beta. Comment if you're interested.

Part I
Part II
Part III

Jack was dozing on the creaking springs when he felt his head throb. It was like a band of pressure pulsed around his temples hard enough to bruise. The second pulse jarred him to awareness. His eyes opened into the pitch black. There was a crash and out of the dark someone suggested, “Put on your boots, sir. There’s glass on the floor.” His heart rate shot through the roof.

Rolling he reached down and found his boots, shoving his feet into them. The laces were too fine for him to tie. They wiggled out of his fingers and tangled like they had a mind of their own. A white phosphorescent flash lit the room. It stole Jack’s breath as he his heart slammed into his ribcage.

“Easy.” A warm arm landed over Jack’s bare stomach. “Easy sir, the Queen of the Gypsy is a clever one. She’ll play with us before the night’s through.” White spots haunted Jack’s vision. The voice kept talking in an accent he didn’t recognize. “We’ve had her slip FOs through those lagers. That’s why we sandbag.”

Out side guns roared and shells burst like the Fourth of July. The jungle burned to produce thick, black smoke that stuck to the ground and wet inside the soldiers’ lungs. The noise was enough to make Jack believe blood was leaking from his ears. Like strobe lights the shells blinded him and gave him the worse headache he’d ever had in his life.

“She does it to break up our sleep. It’s an old mental shake-up trick.” The mysterious man pressed Jack’s M-16 into his hands. “We’re fine for the most part. Unless Gypsy picked up some more firepower we don’t know about she can’t do much real damage, just scare the shit out of us.”

Outside someone shouted. A woman cried out. Not a shrill scream but a wordless cry of anger. Glass shattered. She shrieked, “Shut the fuck up, you fucking cunt! We’re trying to fucking sleep!” God only knew which woman it was.

“Sounds like Nadia’s feeling shorted,” the man observed. “Last time she took one of the Thompsons out into the trenches near the berm and razed every tracer source she saw. Fuckin’ bitch was so pissed Charley didi mau’ed right outta there. We heard there was actually a price on Dia’s head for that shit.”

Jack realized he was hyper-ventilating. The grip of his M-16 seemed to inlay its pattern into his flesh. “Sleep, lieutenant. I’ll make sure no one slits your throat while you rest.” And gripping his rifle Jack closed his eyes and found himself falling back asleep. But before he drifted off entirely he saw the face of a young man in the white-blue light of incendiaries. A man too young.

And in every hootch one man or woman sat up with a gun in their lap, finger on the trigger. The night glowed brightly and they watched, knowing the next day their edge would be dulled by exhaustion and Charley would be ready and willing to take advantage.

Chloe counted the stars in between the blinding light. Doyle chain smoked and slowly thumbed through a skin mag Milo had gotten somewhere. Aaron Pierce watched the jerky movements of the defensive night guard, the lager, in the still frames. Nadia cleaned her rifle, actually one of her former patient’s, furiously and tried to drown out the noise by humming under her breath.

One of the artillerymen had a radio. John Lennon’s voice smoothed the ragged nerves of those awake. Chase leaned his head against the edge of the officer’s cot. Outside a dog barked furiously. Fingers tensed on triggers but Dumbshit quieted soon enough and John Wayne and Doggy San didn’t make a sound. The hilt of his knife was heavy in his hand. It was Chicom manufacture. He’d taken it off the body of the sick fuck he had escaped from.

Jack woke before dawn when the sky was the color of a blue-black bruise. The snake-eater was finally visible in the dark light. If Jack twitched his hand two inches right he’d be able to feel the fine scruff of the dark head. The M-16 was an unpleasantly inorganic weight against his sternum. Smoke and fog swirled through the confines of the hootch. There were no shells.

His toes were stiff and cold in his wet boots. The picture of Teri and Kim had fallen during the night. Glass from the frame lay on the floor like pieces broken out of Vietnam’s empty, gray skies. Even his lungs were still.

Unnaturally loud the sucking clomp of someone walking down the road became a wet thud as he walked onto the hootch’s wooden stoop. Tony pushed open the door and looked in. “I see you survived your first night in Nevada. Congratulations, Lieutenant Bauer.” His smile was a skull’s grimace. “Kate’s making something hot for breakfast. She says that you’re both invited.” The door swung shut with a loud clap that made Jack jerk upright.

Chase stood smoothly. It was impossible to tell he’d spent the night on the damp floor watching the door. “Come on, sir. Hot rations are next to impossible to come by around her. Never turn’em down.”

Just outside the nurses’ hootch, Kate leaned over a small camp stove. Oil sizzled in the mess tin she’d set on top of it. At her side was a pot of something white and thick with golden chunks floating in it.

Jack looked at the mess and down at his mess tin, wondering if a hot meal was really worth that. Then the woman reached down and took a spoonful of the white, viscous liquid and plopped it on her makeshift griddle. The smell of frying pancakes filled the air along with the sweet burn of caramelizing sugars.

One of the nurses, the reddish-brown haired on, added cold bottled water and ice into a coffee pot, stirring slowly. She smiled at over Jack’s shoulder at the sergeant. “Hey Tony. We actually have milk to go with the coffee. Mike stashed some packets of the dry stuff in his gear.”

“Thank God,” Tony grinned. “I don’t think I have any stomach lining left.” He walked over to the small fire that the exotic looking nurse tended. Over the flames hung a large coffee pot. Steam rose from the spout in a thick curl. She smiled when he murmured something indistinguishable to her. Using a stick threaded through the handle, she tipped the pot up. Tony held his tin mug beneath it. Dark liquid splashed into the container and the pungent smell of roasted beans mingled with the sweet baking odors.

More sloshing came from the street as Mike Doyle and his tall, curly haired hootch mate joined them. Kate scraped at the tin with a bowie knife which she used as a spatula to flip the pancakes. “Their pineapple,” she warned the newcomers. Both men made positive noises and went to get some coffee.

The snake-eater chuckled low in Jack’s ear. “Most of the boys substitute caffeine for sanity. You’d do well to do the same.” Before the lieutenant could demand he explain that comment he went over to sweettalk the exotic nurse into giving him some. Jack made a mental note to find out her name.

“First batch is done,” Kate announced proudly gesturing with her knife at the three small patties sizzling in the pan.

Tony stepped forward with a mutter of, “Finally.”

Chase stepped in front of him smoothly. “Officer gets first dibs, Almeida.” The other man opened his mouth, eyes flashing. Glaring back the younger man repeated, “The Lieutenant goes first, sergeant.” Something happened to the air between them. Jack couldn’t define it. He almost took a step back. But Tony growled something under his breath and stepped away.

Kate smiled slightly nervously as she gestured at Jack. “Come on, sir. Don’t want them to burn.”

Jack stepped forward and took his portion of the pancakes then got himself a cup of coffee. He smiled at the nurse by the pot. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Nadia Yassir,” she replied waving him back so Mike’s unnamed hootchmate could get a cup of coffee. He raised his eyebrow. The international literature degree quickly provided him with an overview of her origins. “Isalmic?”

She paused and looked up in surprise. “Yessir. Is that a problem?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Definitely not. Just unusual. I though you’d be wearing a headscarf if you were.”

Shrugging she finished pouring the cup of coffee. “That’s only the more traditional sects, sir. I never have but my mother does.” Jack nodded and decided to shut up before her good will ran out. Finding a relatively dry barrel, he sat down to eat.

Fic: Raining Red III

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 02:36:20 GMT

Title: Raining Red (III)
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Michelle, suggestion of Chloe/Chase, Jack/Nina, Nadia/Doyle, Nadia/Milo, Jack/Teri, Chase/OC
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: In search of beta. Comment if you're interested.

Part I
Part II

After some more unproductive probing of his new sergeant, Jack moved on, wandering around camp. It was late evening now and his skin had a grayish cast in the unlit areas. Everyone else had quite literally hunkered down for the night. Each hootch it seemed had between two and four occupants. Jack suddenly wished for his own roommate as he watched the various figures mill about before breaking away and disappearing into the buildings.

The blonde woman was joined by a darker haired beauty in the radio hootch. Neither of them seemed overly fond of each other judging by the lack of chatter and contact as they settled in for the night. Most of the others were leaning against each other and laughing. Doyle kissed an exotic, Middle Eastern nurse on the cheek and flushed slightly. She laughed and kissed both him and his hootch-mate before joining two other women.

“Looking for something or just looking?” Jack jumped and turned to see who the husky voice belonged too. The dark-haired radio-operator had snuck out while he wasn’t looking. She had a cigarette in hand and extended the pack towards him. “Nina Meyers. You must be the new officer.”

He took one of the smokes and lit up from the gas lantern burning near by. Inhaling the ashy smoke he asked, “Who’s your bunk mate?”

“Chloe?” Nina laughed a deep, rich sound that sparked something in Jack’s gut. “She was one of the first people you ran into? I’m so sorry. Chloe O’Brien’s not who anyone would choose to be part of the welcoming party.”

He smiled at her. “I take it she’s always that charming?”

The woman snorted. “Always. Brilliant with electronics, a total bitch with people.” With a small smile she blew smoke in his face. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jack Bauer,” he awkwardly extended his hand, not sure whether to treat her as a college or something else entirely.

With a smile that Teri would probably describe as cat-coy, she put her hand in his. “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Bauer, welcome to Firebase Nevada.” And damn if her skin wasn’t the most pleasantly cool thing he’d ever felt. She didn’t sashay as she walked back towards her bed. Nina Meyers had too much class to flaunt what she knew she had. But he watched her moved despite that.

“And I see our resident whore’s at it again.” Nadia’s icy comment merely garnered a snort from Michelle and a soft sigh from Kate.

The gentlest of the women raised her head just enough to sigh once more. “’Dia, I think you’re being overly harsh with Nina. She’s…”

“She’s sleeping her way into influence,” Michelle interrupted sourly. “Katie, honey, even you see that.” The three were silent for a long moment.

Nadia crushed out the remaining embers of incense they used to fight the smell of rotting jungle and death. Michelle turned out the electric lights. Milo had shyly approached Nadia early on and warned them that they were silhouetted through the plastic windows at night.

In the dark they bumped elbows stripping off shirts and kicking off boot. Socks were peeled off and tossed in a pile to be boiled in the morning. It was a constant effort to campaign against the jungle fungi that found their way onto the men’s bodies.

Michelle watched the dark shapes of her friends crawl into their cots and sat near their fortified doorway. Tony had promised to stop by later. Last time he’d scrounged some M&Ms and given them to her. She’d split them with Nadia, Kate, Chloe, Paula, and Jamie. Gypsy Bitch had killed Paula and Jamie not long after.

“Hey…” Tony crouched in down into the protection offered by the sandbags. Michelle scooted over and invited him further onto the stoop of the hootch. With a grin he crawled next to her. Their hands twined on the wet wood. “I got some cans of pineapple. But I never really had a taste for the stuff.”

She took the silver cans and slid them inside. “How did you know I love pineapple?”

Despite the sticky evening he leaned his head on her shoulder. “A little bird told me.” Giggling she squeezed his hand. It was stolen moment under the cloudy skies. The razors edge between day and night that didn’t belong to GIs or the VC. In those few minutes they could be people again.

Across camp PFC Rick Allen shook awake PFC Adam Kaufmann. The older man made a noise of complaint but Rick, barely out of his teens, continued to shake him. “Adam…Adam come on man, there’s something out there.”

Grumbling to himself, Adam wiped the crust off his eyelashes and reached from the M-16 leaning nearby. “Fine, kid,” he muttered. “Let’s go check it out. Get your gun.” Evening brought no end to the humidity. Large insects buzzed around the lights sounding like jets in the distance. Adam had draped mosquito netting over his bed to keep them off his face while he slept.

His bare feet jammed into the cold mud that had coagulated inside his boots. There was an unpleasantly squelching noise and that was that. Wincing at the slick grit sensation he checked the breech of his gun, jammed his knife in his belt and waited for Rick to get his act together.

Rick managed to get on his boots and prop his gun on his hip but couldn’t remember where his knife was. His face heated up and it seemed even in the dark Adam would be able to spot the glow of his embarrassment. Adam sighed in a put-upon way and tossed him an extra bayonet. The kid attached it to his belt and tied his boots tightly. He didn’t want to trip over the laces again.

“Now,” Adam pushed aside the mosquito netting and stepped into the moist night. Rick followed him closely, raising the muzzle of his gun to the shadows he could have sworn moved. The foreign sounds of jungle life filled the dark and made it hard to listen for movement.

Somewhere a branch cracked. Rick swung to face it but was held up short when Adam pushed down the barrel of his rifle. “It’s the snake-eater, Ricky. He’s just doing his thing and scaring the shit out of the rest of us.”

The kid blinked. “How’d you know that.”

Adam grabbed Ricky’s shoulders and spun him hard. The younger man found himself looking at a pale throat and the tiger-striped jacket collar. “Because you’d be dead if he wasn’t,” Adam informed his hootch-mate flatly.

The lanky Green Beret ducked back into the shadows of the inner enclosure. He’d been prowling the outermost rings of light, delaying his return to the now occupied hootch. Before Bauer and Chapelle, he bunked with David Palmer and his younger brother Wayne. Wayne, Curtis Manning, Doc Besson, and Aaron Pierce had moved in together after the eldest Palmer disappeared, leaving no room for him. Chase missed Davy too. There was just something missing inside of him, part of the invisible pieces left in a Cambodian prison.

Chloe had left Nina to her smoking and quiet wanderings in men’s beds. The only reason she slept separate from the other girls was because of the radio. Luckily, her dislike of Nina was mutual so they happily ignored each other.

The cigarette, one of the few things she and Nina agreed to share, dangled from her fingers. “Can I?” The voice coming out of the heavy black didn’t startle her. She extended the white cylinder. Chase eased it out of her fingers and took a drag. Red flares from the ember at the end ghosted over his face.

“You shouldn’t prowl,” she murmured. “Scares the cherries.” A flash of white teeth answered her prodding. Of all the women in Nevada she’d been the only one brave, stupid, enough to push the strange soldier. And she had, hard. She was the only person anyone knew who could press something like an emotional reaction out of him.

“Not sure I want to sleep with the FNG,” Chase said abruptly. There were teeth dents in the filter of the cigarette. “I miss the other boys.”

“They’re just not used to seeing people who don’t cry,” she sighed, pulling him down to her side. “Give Wayne time. He knows you love Davy. And he knows you did everything you could.”

Chase sighed. His fingers came up and lazily dragged across the edge of her collar bone. Smoke stung both their eyes but neither broke gaze. With a gentle blow Chloe knocked away the exploring hand. One tumble in the sheets with him was enough for her though they were still friends.

“Go to bed, Chase.” Her voice was heavy with the weight of living in this place. Leaning over she pressed her lips lightly to his forehead. “Don’t dream tonight.” The girls had made up a dozen silly little rituals to comfort each other and the boys. Words and touches that were meant to stave of demons and death. Not that they did.

With a mock salute Chase slipped away. Chloe lifted her cigarette. The fireworks would be starting soon.

Fic: Raining Red (II)

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 01:53:27 GMT

Title: Raining Red
Author; asp0_5
Rating: R
Pairing: None as of yet.
Warnings: This is set in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Drug use, violence, deaths of women and children, etc.
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Disclaimer: Don't own 24. I don't make any money off of this and my paycheck isn't worth suing me for.
A/N: Once again feel free to speak up. There's another intro chapter coming then there will be some action I promise.

Part I

After he’d unpacked what little he’d brought with, Jack left the relative safety of his hootch and went in search of his platoon sergeant. Around him the men and a few women worked together to fill and stack sandbags. There was something frantic about their movements as if they were trying to beat a deadline only they knew about.

The blonde who’d been taking bets on his life-span was stacking bags over the open face of a wooden lean-to. Jack saw the radio inside with its flickering gauges before she turned and glowered at him. “What do you want?” Apparently the strident rudeness in her tone didn’t change after all.

Flushing slightly under her indifferent gaze he told her, “I’m looking for the platoon sergeant.”

“Tony’s in the mess.” She returned to lifting the heavy bags onto her little wall. He reached down to help her but found his hands slapped away. “Just leave, lieutenant. You aren’t helping anyone.”

He felt like a gawky teenage boy who no one really wanted but couldn’t be ignored. Dropping the edge of the sandbag he watched her stumble under the weight and then heave it onto the others. There was something missing here.

Deep, muddy ruts ran between the slipshod structures. There didn’t seem to be many jeeps. Instead, everyone slogged through the mud. Jack’s boots sank into the red-black mixture up to mid-calf. His socks absorbed the moisture and he felt the mud squelch under the soles of his feet as it filled his jungle boots. That cordite smell was coming from glop. Cordite and copper.

The mess hall was perhaps too kindly named. A few wooden boards were propped on barrels and the benches were one board sitting on two half-barrels all covered by a tin and tarp roof with reed walls. There was one man eating, if it could be called that. He had a can of skippy, a few flat crackers, and his ka-bar.

“Tony?” Jack stepped inside noting that the run-off rainwater from the roof was drained into barrels at each corner.

Chewing a mouth full of peanut butter and dry cracker the handsome, olive skinned sergeant looked up. He took a swallow of water from the green, plastic canteen next to him. The bench creaked and slid slightly as he swung his legs over and stood up to salute. “Sergeant Tony Almeida, sir. Can I help you?” There were crumbs on his upper lip he tried to swipe away with his sleeve.

Jack gestured for the other man to sit back down and joined him. “I understand you’re my platoon sergeant. I’m Jack Bauer.” He tried to smile but could only grimace at the blank look in the dark eyes. Was there a single person here who had any life in his gaze?

“We’ve got nine guys left including me. Eleven if we pull Milo Pressman out of motor pool and let the snake-eater tag along. Usually we flesh out to sixteen using the girls. Michelle Dessler’s our acting RTO so we’ll call her number twelve. Chloe O’Brien and Nina Meyers take turns manning the base radio so we take which of’ems not on duty. Kate Warner is the acting medic but she can shoot pretty well. Nadia Yassir always tags along. With you, that’s sixteen.” Tony rattled off the names and numbers like he was reciting sports statistics. His squad should have been thirty-five men strong.

Snagging one of the crackers, Jack crunched it dry. It stuck to his mouth like sawdust. Tony offered him the canteen and murmured, “Have some skippy, LT. It’ll settle your stomach.”

Finally, some sympathy. Jack looked uncertainly at the proffered can. With amusement Tony instructed, “Use your fingers, sir. Not like we’re big on hygiene here.” Jack flushed as he jammed his fingers into the oily spread and scooped some out. He dabbed some onto the flour-based cardboard and took a bite. After nearly gagging the stuff back up he waited for the mass to hit his stomach queasily. To his surprise it did and the sloshing sensation eased.

“You haven’t been eating enough. That’s where the nausea’s comin’ from.” Tony’s tongue flicked out agilely and caught a crumb. “I did that my first few days in-country too. Davy Palmer had to straighten me out.”

“Which one is he?” Jack asked softly taking another sip of the tepid, plasticy water.

The other man shrugged. His expression didn’t shift in the slightest as he replied, “The platoon sergeant I replaced.” Jack didn’t press. Pressing seemed a breech of the strange etiquette of this place. One that would probably get him decked judging by the general sour attitude.

Switching topics Jack sighed, “Let’s get geared up for a quick night patrol.”

Tony turned just in time to keep Jack from having a mouthful of crumbs and skippy blown all over his front. “No fucking way!” Belated he added, “Sir.” Shaking his head he said more softly, “That Gypsy’s out there. She’s just waiting for a cherry officer like you to take out a night patrol.” With another violent shake he insisted, “No sir, Lieutenant, we don’t do night patrols here in Nevada.”

“Gypsy?” Rubbing his temples Jack tried to catch up with the fear he now saw.

“What ‘til tonight,” was the prophetic reply, “The night’s hers.”

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 01:41:38 GMT

Title: 9MM Friendship
Author: asp
Rating: R
Summary: Chloe isn't a fool, not for love or money.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Day 3

Chloe honestly had no idea why Jack was putting her through this pointless exercise. So while he blathered she took a good look at the 9mm he’d handed her and popped out the clip. Pulling back the slide she caught the bullet the popped out of the breech and set it next to the clip on the small, wooden stand.

While Jack was still yattering away about safety she field-stripped the pistol and checked the barrel for obstructions. It was clear and the gun looked to be in good shape. She put the pieces back together in the same rhythm she’d been taught. Smoothly she slammed the clip home and pulled on the slide. Picking up the single bullet she carefully inserted it into the chamber and eased the hammer forward with both thumbs.

Jack had finally stopped talking over her. Stepping up to the railing she sent her target out thirty feet and took aim. Both feet were firmly planted for balance and she held the gun straight-armed in both hands, the classic Weaver stance.

Pausing only to flick off the safety, she aimed once more, inhaled, exhaled. BANG! BANG! BANG! Two in the chest, one in between the eyes. BANG! BANG! BANG! All three in the x-ring. BANG! BANG! BANG! A neat line stitched from forehead to groin. BANG! Last one in the head.

Chloe ejected the clip, looked down the barrel sights, and sighed. Not the best she’d ever shot but a hell of a lot better than Jack thought she could. Turning to face the stunned man she said flatly, “Just ‘cause I don’t like guns doesn’t mean I can’t use’em.”

She set the gun down on the stand and removed her ear protection, looking him in the eye. “Next time Jack, ask first.” Scowl etched into her face she moved towards the exit.

Gently his hand caught her arm. With a sheepish smile he admitted, “Okay, maybe I was a bit presumptuous. Who taught you to shoot?”

“Chase,” she answered coolly. “First time I had to go out into the field he made me shoot until I could hit something.” Her mind recalled the comforting pressure of his chest against her back as she flinched from the loud noise. He’d been patient with her, burning through clip after clip with her standing between his arms until the sound no longer made her wince. “I’m okay about it now.” But it wasn’t the same with Chase gone.

Jack looked down at her hands, blackened in the creases with gun oil and rough with gunshot residue. “You miss him?”

Following his line of sight she nodded. “Yeah. A lot.”

“So do I.” His fingers curled over hers. Her hands were just so damn small. It seemed he’d break every bone in them if he squeezed too hard. Those same hands that had handle the gun so confidently. “He’s not easy to forget.”

“It makes it all the easier to miss him,” she sighed. Had Jack’s hands always been able to engulf hers? Yes her hands were small. All the better to stick them into a malfunctioning hard drive without out getting burned or electrocuted. She just felt so small standing next to him. Stupid because Jack was shorter than most of the agents and she wasn’t that vertically challenged.

Jack gently pushed his thumbs into the back of Chloe’s hands. Beneath of the translucent layer of skin he could feel the shift of bones and creaking tendons. The definition of irony, Chloe with her steely will and indomitable determination trapped in a body that might as well be made of spun glass.

They still were at the firing range. The sound of other shots jarred them both back into reality. Jack picked up the gun and checked it back in up front along with their borrowed ear protection.

Chloe wandered out to the car. The black painted metal felt like it was scalding her fingertips when she touched it. The pavement just beyond her feet rose and fell like water. It was a mirage. Her mind quickly provided the details of its formation. Air at different temperatures has different indices of refraction. Therefore a single light wave passing through these different temperature layers bends a little each time as it travels towards the human eye.

“Chloe?” Jack’s voice made her jump. His hands settled heavy on her shoulders. “Easy. Didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

She sighed and leaned against the pressure he was putting on her shoulder blades. “Sorry I’m being such a bitch, Jack. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. Maybe it’s the heat.”

He nodded. “Did you know that when the temperature goes up, so does the homicide rate.”

“Everyone knows that, Jack,” Chloe snapped absently. The sun was giving her a headache but it’d be even hotter inside the car. And yes, her eyes did sting and her chest did ache. Ignoring the burn she laid the back of her hands against the hood of the car and looked at her palms.

“He’s not dead.” The infamous Jack Bauer mind-reading trick.

She shrugged. “Might as well be. Isn’t it the same thing when you can’t talk to them anymore?”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded. “Yeah it is.” His finger traced one of the grease-darkened creases. The heat from his body was uncomfortable against her back. She could feel the cotton of her shirt plastering itself unpleasantly to her skin.

Then something stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck and she jumped. His teeth hit her vertebrae and she felt the sharp sensation of splitting flesh. He swore, she yelped. Warm and damp his tongue dragged across the wound and cleaned away the dribbling blood before pressing against the cut and staying there.

Stiff as stone she stood in his arms until he pulled his mouth away to check the bleeding was stopped. They parted, him flushed and her just still. “Jack, I’m never going to be Teri or Audrey.” Her face wasn’t quite her own as she spoke. “And you’re not him and you’ll never be him no matter how hard you try.”

That was the end of it, would always be the end of it. She’d cried too much in her short life and she wouldn’t cry anymore than she had too for Jack Bauer.

She set the gun down on the stand and removed her ear protection, looking him in the eye. “Next time Jack, ask first.” Scowl etched into her face she moved towards the exit.

Gently his hand caught her arm. With a sheepish smile he admitted, “Okay, maybe I was a bit presumptuous. Who taught you to shoot?”

Jack looked down at her hands, blackened in the creases with gun oil and rough with gunshot residue. “You miss him?”

Following his line of sight she nodded. “Yeah. A lot.”

They still were at the firing range. The sound of other shots jarred them both back into reality. Jack picked up the gun and checked it back in up front along with their borrowed ear protection.

“Chloe?” Jack’s voice made her jump. His hands settled heavy on her shoulders. “Easy. Didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

She sighed and leaned against the pressure he was putting on her shoulder blades. “Sorry I’m being such a bitch, Jack. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. Maybe it’s the heat.”

He nodded. “Did you know that when the temperature goes up, so does the homicide rate.”

“He’s not dead.” The infamous Jack Bauer mind-reading trick.

She shrugged. “Might as well be. Isn’t it the same thing when you can’t talk to them anymore?”

That was the end of it, would always be the end of it. She’d cried too much in her short life and she wouldn’t cry anymore than she had too for Jack Bauer.

Art Stuff

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 02:24:44 GMT

Banners of various fandoms and things.

Fic: Down with Disney

Wed, 30 May 2007 23:03:13 GMT

Title: Down with Disney
Author: asp
Rating: PG
Summary: How Chloe's child sees the world.
Warnings: little graphic-ness
Spoilers: Day Six

None of your favorite stories end in happily ever after. Because Momma tells the best stories but her stories are real and real never has a happy ending.

Real heroes don’t ride off into the sunset. They crawl onto your front porch and ask in hoarse tones with fake smiles if your momma is home. Some of them like you. They like bouncing you on their laps or pushing you on the swings and want to hear all about your life. Others don’t. You learn to avoid those ones quickly. They aren’t intentionally harsh, Momma tells you, but they are what their situation makes them.

You learned young not to be frightened by the bright color of blood, or skin charred black, or flesh so swollen it didn’t look human. Only once did you scream in fright and run away. Later you saw the thing, you couldn’t believe at the time he was as man, crying as Momma put ice on his face. It was then you realized the thing, man or no, had feelings too. You wouldn’t let yourself be afraid anymore.

People praise your intelligence. Momma says not to let it go to your head. So you recognize you’re quicker on the uptake than most and save your smiles and pride for the strangers who slip in and out of your house like shards of a nightmare.

None of your favorite stories end in happily ever after. Because that phrase conjures visions of a Disney movie where the evil, twisted sorcerer is defeated and everything is beautiful. You know the truth. The evil walk away whole and the good come to your momma with their wounds and tears and twisted scars. And you hold their hands and sing them to sleep for one night because their heroes and in your childish way you love them.

Fic: Raining

Sun, 27 May 2007 21:55:10 GMT

Title: Raining Red (Part I)
Author: asp
Rating: R
Summary: Jack Bauer is sent to replace a lieutenant at the end of his tour, only to find the man he was sent to replace is dead and the squad he's supposed to lead is beyond repair.
Warnings: This is set to the background of the Vietnam war. People will die. Characters will do things that might seem immoral. And they all talk like grunts. That means lots and lots of f*ck as the story progresses.
Spoilers: None

The driver had DOYLE stitched onto his front pocket just like he was supposed to. It was the only regulation thing about him. His uniform looked like it had be re-dyed from its olive drab into something approximating the tiger stripes those snake-eaters wore. His blonde hair was roughly cropped short and a days worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and cheek. The engine of the jeep whined with the strain of keeping the speeds its driver was demanding. But that was only civilized noise. The rest of the sounds were the alien buzzes and pops of the jungle.

Lieutenant Second Class Jack Bauer, United States Army looked down at the duty orders he’d received once more. Constant humidity had curled the edges of the paper and made it feel pleasantly cool and damp against his hands still healing from his first encounter with the hot barrel of an M-16.

With a splash the jeep roared through a small stream and groaned up as it rolled up the opposite bank. Doyle was doing something with the gear shift that seemed to ease the load on the engine. The radio crackled. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel he grabbed the hand-held receiver and replied “Las Vegas this is Roadrunner, go ahead. Over.”

The radio spit some more then a surprisingly feminine sounding voice said, “Roadrunner this is Las Vegas. Nat Hawkeye sends his regards and says to avoid Section Blue comin’ in. Hawkeye and Belle Starr are running Charley that direction. Over.”

“Roger that Las Vegas,” Doyle answered, turning right on the fork. “I’m coming around from the north. Roadrunner over and out.”

“10-4, Roadrunner. Las Vegas over and out.”

Jack cleared his throat but Doyle didn’t even blink. “What was that all about?” the officer asked curiously. He understood basic radio protocol well enough but seeing it in action made him feel like a stupid officer cadet.

“Charley was sniffing around the easiest route to Nevada,” Doyle returned crisply. “We already lost one lieutenant who had his driver come in that way. That’s why the captain sent me this time. Charley knows better than to mess with us locals.” His fingers were beating out a quick tattoo on the wheel.

Slipping his duty orders back into the plastic case he’d been given Jack probed further. “Why not just send a chopper?”

Doyle snorted. “If you spit you’re in Cambodia. That’s why, sir. Choppers make great targets. And Charley likes to stand on his side of the border and shoot’em so we can’t do shit about it. We’re down to two chopper jockeys ‘cause of that.” There was a chill to his voice. Maybe a few of the dead pilots had been his friends.

“I see.” Jack heard gunfire in the distance and tensed, reaching for the M-1911 on his belt. The driver seemed unperturbed so he relaxed a little.

The sun was going down quickly, or maybe it was the gathering rain clouds. Either way, night was coming. Doyle glanced at his watch and cursed softly. “Too soon… Hang on, sir.” He floored the pedal and coaxed all he could get out of the engine. These humid nights didn’t belong to the Americans; they belonged to that VC bitch the resident snake-eater had dubbed ‘Gypsy Queen.’ And God save him and the cherry lieutenant if she caught them after dark.

Jack griped the sides of the jeep as the rattling and bouncing got worse. “Corporal, what’s wrong?” Silently he added, ‘And could you tell me before I upchuck?’

“It’s getting dark, sir.” Doyle kept his eyes on the road reaching to the seat next to him for his father’s ancient Colt .45. The World War II vintage pistol had served him Korea and wouldn’t fail him in this steamy climate. No need to scare the FNG yet. His fingers curled white knuckled around the grip as he brought it over to rest on his lap.

They breasted the hill without the jeep falling apart. There, shining like Camelot in Doyle’s eyes was Firebase Nevada. He imagined he could hear the Beatles and Steppenwolf blaring out of the radio perched on the window ledge of the hooch he shared with Milo, the resident mechanic.

Nurse Michelle Dessler, a.k.a. Belle Starr, was manning the gate with a CAR-15 perched on her hip. It still seemed bigger than the petite woman. She had a grim look on her face as she waved them through. The smell of burnt cordite hung in the wet air and smothered them.

“What is going on?” Jack was leaning over the side of the jeep, staring at the woman. She was joined by a broad-shouldered black man with an M-16 who helped her drag the gate shut. The two of them propped their weapons out of the way and started to drag sandbags in front of the gate.

“They’re trying to stay alive.” Oh Jesus, it was a snake-eater. The tall, lanky man looked too young for the tiger-striped fatigues he was dressed in. No rank designation. No name. Just a smooth face and a pale of eyes the same color as the jungle at dawn Jack’s first morning in-country.

More people were coming out, ringing the jeep at a distance with their hands on weapons. Men and women both armed, both with stained and splotched fatigues. Some had tanned, some were born dark, and others were still pale. All had the same look in their eyes as Doyle and the snake-eater.

Through the crowd came a graying artillery captain. The people around him parted silently. Jungle noise filled the unnerving space caused by lack of voices. Green and dull black metal with automat faces set the scene of Jack’s new command as he saluted. The captain returned the salute carelessly but polite, “Bill Buchanan. I’m the ranking officer I’m afraid. The infantry officer you were replacing, Ryan Chappelle, died two days ago during mortar attack. You’ll be taking over his squad. Bravo, Third, Forty-fourth.”

Jack could only nod. His eyes were on the snake-eater who was laughing silently, lips drawn back in a wolfish grin. He imagined if there was any noise it would be the same as the cold howls of the coyotes from his home.

One of the women, a blonde with close cropped hair who was dwarfed by her M-16, narrowed her eyes. “Place your bets now, fuckers. Mine says seven days. Anyone else?”

Immediately there was an influx of yelling and squawking. “Three days!” “Twenty-four hours!” “Fucking pessimists. Two weeks!”

Buchanan helped Jack with his duffle as he led him towards the irregularly grouped, crude hootches. “Ignore them, Bauer. Most of them are still reeling from loosing Walsh, Paula, and Jamie all in one day.”

Sick to his stomach from the bets on, what he just realized was, his life expectancy, Jack asked, “Why are the women carrying guns?”

“We haven’t gotten reinforcements since last year,” Buchanan sighed. “We picked up the remains of a M.A.S.H. unit that got ambushed eight months ago. Only those girls you saw and a few patients were left. They haven’t gotten alternative orders so they stayed to give us some spare pairs of hands.” He kicked open the door to a relatively straight standing hootch and led Jack inside. The now deceased lieutenant’s possessions were still laid out exactly as he’d left them.

Buchanan dropped Jack’s duffel on the still tightly made bed and started swiping various knick-knacks into a box that had been sitting on the floor marked ‘C-RATIONS.’ “It was originally Edmunds idea give’em all some basic training. A few of the girls took to it like naturals so we started using’em to flesh out our patrols.”

Gesturing to the jumble of items landing in the box Jack murmured, “Was he Edmunds?” His eyes were drawn to the framed picture of a young woman, now with a crack in the glass.

“No. You saw Edmunds earlier. He was one of some Green Berets that went into Cambodia. Only he came out.” Buchanan checked the rough set of drawers and under the bed to make sure he had all of the former occupant’s things. “Try not to die too soon. Thanks to those CIA pukes we won’t be getting anymore officers at all soon.”

Jack could only nod and watch as his processor was swept away into a box like he never existed at all. He wondered if that would be his fate too. He wondered if Teri and Kim’s picture would crack when it hit the cardboard or if his successor would look at their unmarred faces and wonder who he had been. He sat on the bed and felt it creak and sink beneath his weight. What was this place?

Fic: What Friends Are For

Sun, 13 May 2007 04:03:56 GMT

Fic: What Friends Are For
Rating: R (Adult Content)
Summary: Chloe's trying to give Jack a hand. It doesn't seem to be working.
A/N: Not exactly fluffy and bright. I have my version of the ending. But I'm always curious.

Chloe wiped her mouth and looked in the mirror at herself. Dark strands hung around her face like miserable pieces of yarn dunked in muck. Dried sweat stuck to her skin like a scummy coat of plaque. She looked like shit. Blood on her mouth gave it more color than nature ever had.

“What do you see?” the hoarse weary man demanded behind her. His reflection reached up but then stopped just short of touching the white round of her shoulder. The purple-pink lashes across his chest left wide patches of hairless skin. The rest had rough, dark curls on it. They lightly covered his chest and moved down his stomach in a narrow stripe to disappear underneath the worn denim of his unzipped cutoffs.

Turning as slowly and painfully as if she’d aged a thousand years, she replied, “You and me and my bathroom.” The off-white tile needed a serious bleach job. She just never found the time. Each tile had a little pink and yellow flower pattern which made it look worse. There was even a yellow ring around the bathtub. Damn city water.

He sighed and nodded. “Fuck.” His heavy, callused fingers landed on her still tender, bared breasts and pressed in to the dark bruises already their. It hurt but it didn’t. She let her chunked up hair hit his shoulder and her head went back. His teeth sank into her thin neck and left another angry crescent. This was the third time in four hours they’d tried.

The edge of the porcelain sink dug a line of pressure across the front of her hips, just above the dark curls of her groin. It throbbed as rough denim ground against the soft skin of her flank. Still, nothing.

Jack swore-softly, violently-in her ear. She ran her fingertips down his arm. “It’s okay. I could try using my mouth again…”

His weight was heavy and warm against her back. “If it didn’t work the first time, it’s not going to.” The rough hands on her breasts moved down to rest lightly on the flat plane of her stomach. “No reflection on you.” A soft huff of warm air over the curve between her neck and shoulder was the only warning she got before his face settled there.

Twisting her head she looked at their reflection. Two days in her apartment with everything from romantic moments to simple rough slamming into the wall. She’d been up and down so much her knees were sore. And Jack had responded, just not the part that mattered.

His skin was still unmarked except for long-healed wounds. Hers bore the marks of his frustration. Red bites faded to black marks and the occasional scab. Bruises layered her hips, breasts, and inner thighs. None were intentional and she didn’t begrudge them. Her body was given freely and without boundary.

“Maybe we’re trying to hard.” She threw out the idea after careful consideration. “Maybe if we just go to bed and relax, get some sleep, it’ll happen naturally.”

With a tired chuckle, he brushed his mouth over the tendon of her throat. “You have a point.” Exhaustion had sent in long ago. It was also frustration. Chloe was lovely, all soft, petite curves and white skin that felt like silk and snow. Only she was so warm that the cold came from the heat at the core of her delicate but oh so strong body.

Her hands reached back to settle on the back of his neck. “Bed.” Chest to back, they started moving. The cream colored walls of Chloe’s apartment had a floral border that seemed out of place with Chloe’s practical personality. Her hips swayed slightly with each step as she walked. He imagined he could feel the way the bones and tendons moved.

Chloe pulled the cool blue sheets down and waited for Jack to strip. His back was to her as he slipped off his pants. The material made a rasping noise. It sounded like pain. She slipped her hand under the material to help it down without touching his skin.

Jack turned and smiled his little boy smile. It was a shy flash of white teeth that made her smile unwillingly back. The bed creaked when he settled. One steel-muscled arm settled across her midriff like a chain. Once again she was forcefully reminded of her place in Jack’s life. Always bound to him, to stand behind him and keep him up. But hell and heaven would declare truce before she ever openly was able to stand by his side.

She rolled in his arms to cradle his head. His scruff stung against her breasts but she ignored it. The short strands of his hair rasped against the palm of her hand like the bristles of her favorite body brush. There was a sense of drifting in the rapidly warming sheets. And for a moment, she dared to pretend.

Dreams are the most ubiquitous things in the world. They offer the promise of escape. For Jack, they offered a dream he wanted so badly he could taste. He was walking through the empty halls of CTU. The only other person there was Chloe. Her shirt was undone to her naval and he could see the swing of her breasts, free of restraint. She wore a pair of jeans he knew for a fact belonged to his former partner, Chase Edmunds. The combat fatigues were cut to just above her ankles. On Chase they’d be just below his knees. The edges were frayed to green strings and there were several rips across the thigh.

“Hey.” His voice echoed through the empty bull pen. She looked up from her desk and scowled. “Hey.” The edge of her desk was warm when he settled against it, flesh heat warm. From there he could see down into her flapping blouse. He hooked her arm and brought her up to kiss her.

Heat exploded through his mouth like the taste of fresh blood. When he pulled back, he was looking at Teri and she was smiling. Her fingers slid into his hair as she leaned back. “I love you, Jack…”

His lips dragged down her throat. The pulse on the side of her neck throbbed like the hoofbeats coming of the track at a horserace. His heart quickly matched its beat. Hands clenching high on her thighs he lifted her onto the desk and leaned just enough he could flick his tongue over her lips.

She was laughing. Her legs spread to accommodate him. The edges of the open blouse flopped down to frame the soft, damp place between her legs. Their pants had been discarded to the side somewhere along the line. She was laying back and he laid over her.

Chloe woke to find Jack leaning over her. His eyes were open but not aware. And the hot weight against her thigh suggested that this whole fucked up idea hadn’t been in vain.

Fic: Another Way

Wed, 02 May 2007 03:21:34 GMT

Title: Another Way
Author: asp
Rating: R
Summary: Tiffy takes option 2. Alternate to 'One Way'
Warnings: Homicidal intentions, drug use, language
Spoilers: Up to Bedfellows

She couldn’t do it. The bottle hit the wall and tumbled down with the sharp click of the pills inside. Tiffy put both her hands to her face. The opened whiskey sat unassumingly on the counter with the black screw on cap next to it. Light glinted off the small, white pills, orange through the plastic.

Walking over she leaned down and picked up the bottle and shook it once. She didn’t have a choice. Mack had decided to use fear against her, now she had to do the same or risk her life for a crime she didn’t commit.

She shook the pills once more then poured three into mortar and picked up the pestle. Pressing down she listened to the crunch of the generic valium between the porcelain. Her arms ached as the chunks slowly broke into a fine powder with a bitter smell. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she poured the powder into the bottle and stirred.

Glancing at her calculations she repeated the process. She’d based the dosage on the concentration of valium per milliliter. Two drinks and the effects would kick in. As she stirred she reminded herself, ‘He started this war. Now I have to finish it.’

The cap screwed easily back onto the drugged whiskey. She put the bottle back in the cabinet and checked the food she’d made. It was laced with Tagamet. Setting the cookies out she walked into her bedroom to change.

Out of the drawers she pulled out a set of Mack’s old combat fatigues in SWAT black. On the bed was a black kerchief she used to cover her hair. As she stood in front of the mirror she listened to the door open and close. Boots clunked into the kitchen and the glass of the whiskey bottle hit the counter.

He would start eating soon. At least, she hoped he would. Her nerve was already starting to fray. She looked up at the mirror at the smears of dark under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. “He started this. I have to finish it,” she told her reflection. Reaching down she laced up the worn combat boots and checked that her small revolver was secure at the small of her back. She didn’t want to kill Mack. But she wouldn’t lay down and die either.

There were more clunks then the soft sound of the race she’d taped for him. Motorcycle racing, it was a low blow, but a necessary one. Sitting on the edge of the bed she waited. Minutes ticked past, then an hour.

Silent on the soft rubber soles she moved out to the living room and saw Mack passed out on the couch. She hadn’t given him much Tagamet and he would wake up, dazed, eventually. Her arms around his chest she dragged him into the guest room which she’d stripped down for just this purpose. All possible tools and weapons were out of reach. Kneeling next to his side the slow rise and fall of his chest drew her eye. It took an effort but she focused her gaze on the task at hand.

She used duck tape to secure his rag-wrapped wrist to the radiator and more to attach his ankles together on the boot leather then to the floor. The back of her throat felt clogged as she sat primly in front of him in her rocking chair and waited.

Mack woke with a soft groan, still muzzy from the drugs. Tiffy forced herself to unclench her fists and not react. Every part of her heart screamed and scrambled to over to her husband. Her cold rationale held her in place. “Whatever you think I did, I didn’t,” she said quietly, waiting to see if he would notice what was going on.

Dazed, Mack tugged at his arms and legs and found he couldn’t move. He looked up at the dark, blurry figure who spoke with his wife’s gentle tones but looked like something out of his nightmares. “What the hell?”

“You threatened my life and Wilson’s life,” she continued. “I don’t have a choice. Mack, I don’t want to die.” Tipping her head she watched his growing awareness, and anger, with the situation. “I will not let you kill me. Even if I have to kill you first.”

Fuming he demanded, “What the hell is going on, Tiffy? Why am I tied up?”

Feeling her lips twitch in an inappropriate smile, she corrected, “Tape. It’s tape, Mack. I didn’t want you to untie the knots. I…” A deep breath braced her determination. “I’ve been terrified for two months. Two months. And I hate it. I hate more than you can ever know.” Her eyes were intense as she refused to break her gaze away. “I want you to understand what that feels like, just for a minute. Knowing the person who you should trust most is about to turn on you like some sort of mongrel dog.”

His eyes moved down to the revolver in her hand and she gave a slightly hysterical giggle. “No. Shootings messy. I’m just going to drown you. It’s easier. All I have to do is wait until you pass out again and get you to vomit. If I keep your head tipped up you’ll inhale and suffocate. Because you’d be unconscious you couldn’t fight. No one would know.”

“Especially since I made sure to handle the bottles of the drugs with rubber gloves after you touched them last. They’ll only find your prints on everything. I’ll empty the rest of the whiskey down the sink wearing the rubber gloves I use to wash dishes and throw it in the neighbors trash. I have a half-bottle you never finished I’ll put in its place on the table.” She was shaking now. “I’ll go to bed and call the ambulance in the morning. Your death will be considered accidental, I’ll get my pension, and the girls and I will bury you and move somewhere…anywhere that doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Mack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re going to kill me?”

Looking up, TIffy bit her lip and laughed hoarsely. “God, I don’t want to. I don’t want to, Mack. But you’ve been acting crazy. Molly and Kim, they don’t realize how bad it’s gotten. I had to end this.”

Rightousley angered Mack snarled, “You deceptive, traitorous, unfaithful bitch. You fucking slut…”

“I did not sleep with him!” Tiffy was vehement as she screamed the words at him. “I did not cheat on you, you bastard! I fucking love you!”

“And the bracelet,” Mack growled, eyes narrowing as she lied to him.

Shaking her head again, Tiffy denied, “Wilson tried to give it to me. I refused. I couldn’t do that to you, Mack. I couldn’t. His clerk, she was jealous because he had a crush on me. The woman who brought you the box planted it in my things. God…I didn’t sleep with him!”

He could only stare as the angry, fearful tears started to run down her flushed cheeks. Then he leaned back and wondered where the fuck it all went wrong.

Fic: One Way

Wed, 02 May 2007 03:17:37 GMT

Title: One Way
Author: asp
Rating: R
Summary: The first view of Tiffy and Mack's screwed up relationship.
Warnings: Dark, non-con, adult content (My stories tend to be a little off kilter and dark.)
Spoilers: Up to Bedfellows

Tiffy sat near the window. Her fingers moved smoothly over the brown felt she was stitching into a pair of floppy ears for Serena’s costume at school. Bars of brightness and shadow fell across her white tank top and whiter skin. There was a gaunt set to her cheeks brought about but lack of sleep and fast-fading appetite. Her skin was translucent, like oiled rice paper straining to cover the tissue beneath.

Light glinted off the fine point of the needle as it moved. The fingers holding it trembled barely perceptibly. In the background the radio crooned softly in the smoky voice of a woman. She had eyes only for the fine stitches of her work. Even the hard press of the honey-brown slates of her chair was ignored.

In the center of the table in front of her, the silver harsh against the warmth of the wood was a gun. Tiffy knew every gun her husband owned. And this wasn’t one of them. So it could only mean one thing. Mack meant to kill someone. Probably her.

The tears had dried several hours ago leaving itchy trails down her cheeks. She felt betrayed. The door slammed opened with a dull thunk and she didn’t raise her eyes from her work. She couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. If Mack wanted her dead she wouldn’t raise a hand to stop him. She wouldn’t fight. She wouldn’t cry. She’d just be dead. A relief from the warring emotions gnawing cruel holes in her stomach.

Tiffy looked like an angel. Light from the window blazed around her golden hair like a halo. Her face was serene and unearthly in its self-contained calm. Right at that moment, Mack hated her for that with a viciousness he couldn’t bring himself to understand. Then he saw the gun on the table.

Her eyes were distant with the simple, powerful belief of a saint about to be martyred. He looked between the gun and her glowing face and more than anything in the world he wanted to hit her. He wanted to knock that collected cool off her lips, tear the acceptance out of her eyes, flush those ivory cheeks. Anything to make her look like a human being not a fucking illustration from her Bible.

His fingers found the glass sitting on the counter. It flew passed her head and shattered against the wall behind her. Tiffy didn’t even blink. He stormed over to stand behind her and she continued to work. Then she was falling through the air. She cried out as her elbows cracked against the linoleum. Something heavy and hard landed on her back and drove her torso into the floor. Breath fled her body and she gasped.

Mack's fingers were on her shirt, in her shirt. He yanked, twisted, and ripped at it until it was off. She wondered if she should be shoving him away but she couldn’t breathe. The knee on her back hurt. The way he grabbed her arm and twisted up towards her neck brought tears to her eyes.

Cool air hit her legs as her jeans ended up around her ankles. The jangle of a belt reached her ears. Mack shoved her arm up further and that hurt so bad, so bad. She was crying again but couldn’t say the words. Her nails skittered across the floor as she tried again, silently screaming, ‘STOP!’

Tiffy’s skin was unblemished. Mack ran his calloused hand from the back of her neck down to where his knee pinned her. Her hair fell across her face hiding her expression from him. He grabbed and yanked roughly, trying to force her eyes up. Her chin went down pulling her hair painfully tight. Fine.

The zipper to his jeans lowered easily. He reached back and forced her thighs apart with his free hand. Then he slid his legs down to lay on top of her.

Oh God! She screamed inside her head. Oh God! This wasn’t her Mack. This couldn’t be. Oh God! It hurt. He was hurting her. Her breasts dragged uncomfortably over the textured floor. His weight put pressure on the fine structure of her ribs. She was stretched and pushed and tugged beyond what she liked.

Shaking she felt him thrust into her, hips banging roughly against her backside. Bone collided with flesh and left its imprint. ‘STOP!’ She didn’t want to be the object of his rage, his disdain. She knew she deserved better than that. But for some reason she couldn’t find the breath to tell him to get off her. There should have been and audible crack as her heart broke. Instead she just laid her head down on the cold, hard floor and stopped caring.

She wouldn’t move. Mack kneeled above her, hands running down her back and whispered her name. Tiffy just laid there. He repeated his call hands running through her hair. When she finally answered it wasn’t what he expected. “Get out.”

Mack moved. His first, immediate thought was he was too heavy. She had to be uncomfortably. He lay down next to her, draping one arm over her hip. “Get off of me,” her voice was higher. “Get out! Leave me alone!”

“Tiffy,” he demanded softly, kissing the side of her neck. She rolled in his arms and buried her face in his still clothed shoulder, hanging on tight.

She finally had her Mack. Both hands curled in the old, soft cotton of his t-shirt as she cried. She ached deep between her legs. Enough so she wouldn’t be happy about walking around for several days.

Big, warm hands rubbed careful circles over her back and hips. “Only you,” she whispered. “I swear to God, I’ve only ever loved you.” And even though she hated the man who came home to her sometimes, the one who hurt her, raped her. She loved Mack. She loved him enough she put up with that other man.

“I was being stupid, Tiff,” Mack whispered into her hair. “With the gun. Shh. I didn’t…I’d never hurt you baby. Never, no matter what happens. Shh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” And he didn’t know he was lying to her.

Fic: Soldier's Daughter

Tue, 24 Apr 2007 02:29:58 GMT

Fic: Soldier's Daughter
Rating: R (Not for sensitive readers)
Summary: Chloe was the daughter of a Ranger. It shows some days. Mike Doyle has no idea what the hell is going on. But he might have found something to believe.
A/N: This is my first real J/C. Yes, I know it's indirect but I've got a feeling you lot will be kinder than most. I'll reiterate, not for the sensitive or easily offended.

A soldier’s daughter never cries. That’s what a man in a uniform with kind eyes told Chloe when he came to door with the news. Daddy was dead.

His Ranger buddies showed up to hold her mother’s hand and to pat her head. She didn’t cry into their crisp uniforms or on their shiny shoes. She didn’t cry anymore. Not really.

The drugs were the right ones. Chase knew people who didn’t ask question. It was easy to do. She took the pills with some water. It hurt more than she thought as she sat in the cool porcelain of her bathtub. Her gut jerked and twitched. She stared up at the ceiling and didn’t cry. Her child had no future in this world.

Doyle was, oddly enough, the one who found her. A blue men’s shirt was wrapped around her upper torso, her legs were bare and smeared with blood. The stench of dying flesh hung in the air. He glanced down and felt his stomach protest and the mass of flesh leaking from between her legs. Wisely he kept his mouth shut and turned on the shower head to start washing the mess down towards the drain.

Chloe glanced up at him. His face was stoic; it reminded her of the men at her father’s funeral. Awkwardly he moved around the bathroom gather towels and gauze and other supplies. She wanted to laugh at his almost kindness as he handed her some aspirin.

The white lumps were like glue on her tongue as she swallowed them down. Two hours of this misery and counting. Doyle sat on the edge of the tub, facing her politely. Her throat choked tight with the black humor as she acted out the dark parody of birth, complete with a man to hold her hand as the contractions came. At least he didn’t tell her to breath.

When it was over, Doyle helped her upright. He even lifted the shower head down to rinse between her legs and over her thighs and ass. The muscles in her legs trembled in fatigue but he wasn’t so condescending as to pick her up. Instead he gripped her hip through the wet shirt. His fingers left bruises on her pale skin.

He left her sitting on the bed to change into the clean, dry clothes she’d left there knowing that she’d be drained after this. From the kitchen he retrieved a white, plastic trashbag and rubber gloves. Going into the bathroom he started cleaning up the masses of tissue cover the drain. They landed in the bag with a wet slap.

To keep his prints off the bag he kept the gloves on as he carried the bag down to the dumpster across the street and dumped it. He tucked the gloves in his pocket and quickly cut through some allies to the small health food store he’d seen on the drive to Chloe’s apartment.

Overly bright florescent lights buzzed overhead. He felt a headache coming on. The girl behind the counter glanced up at him, cracked her gum, and returned too the Earth First! publication she perusing disinterestedly.

Wandering through the aisles he had a hysterical moment when he realized that no package was going to be marked ‘Give this to stubborn, little bitch who induced her own abortion.’ It took him a moment to realize he’d frozen. Stiffly he turned and marched to the counter. “Do you anything for woman who just…was in labor?”

She cracked her gum again and gave him an incredulous look. “Um…Try Sepia and Ignatia. They come in liquid form. Usually people use’em to treat post-partum. But you also might wanna get her some blueberry-willowbark tea to help with any aching. We’ve got some prenatal supplements too.”

Doyle had no idea what any of that meant but he mumbled his thanks and picked up a basket. He knocked bottles bearing names that looked like what the clerk had mentioned into it. Then he added some chocolate and a box of cookies. Chloe may be strange, but she was still female.

Carrying the purchases to the counter he watched her ring them up and paid in cash. The bag was labeled in bright orange print as being made with recycled materials. He tucked it under his arm and took a different route back to Chloe’s apartment.

The door to the apartment was unlocked and he cursed himself for not remembering to lock it. As cold as the bitch could be she wasn’t in any state to handle herself in a confrontation. Half-drawing his gun he stepped inside. Nothing had changed. The bag landed on the counter with a soft thud as he cleared every room.

Chloe was dressed in a snug lavender tanktop and black yoga pants as she lay on top of the sheets. One hand rested on her stomach and her face was scrunched into a grimace. He holstered the weapon. “I got some stuff that might help.”

“Morphine?” There was a dry note in her voice that startled him.

Unwillingly he felt his mouth twitch. “No. Hold on, let me go make some.” He went back into the kitchen and locked the door. Filling the kettle on the stove with water he set it to boil and read the directions on the boxes of tea and supplements.

While the tea seeped he added drops of the liquids to a mug, counting them out precisely. Over the thin sheen of liquid he poured the hot tea. Taking a sip he gagged at the taste and dug around until he found the sugar, dumping liberally. He followed that with some milk that still smelled okay. Tasting it again he decided she probably wouldn’t heave it up right away and carried it to the bedroom.

“It tastes like shit, but you shouldn’t feel like puking.” He extended the steaming mug.

Propping herself up on a pillow she accepted the teddy bear covered ceramic. Delicately she sipped. Her lips curled in disgust but she continued to drink. He stood there like an idiot.

“I don’t need company,” Chloe informed him flatly. “The hard part’s over. I’ve got an exam scheduled for tomorrow. That should minimize any risk of infection.”

When Doyle managed to align his thoughts he said the stupidest thing possible. “Why?”

She huffed at him. “Because Jack’s gone, again. God only knows who has him this time. Audrey’s gone off the deep end, the President is in the hospital, Mr. Buchanan is too busy fighting with is wife to be any help, Morris is useless.” Her eyes were clear, gray, and rolled with characteristic bad humor as she stared him down. “I have contacts. People who love Jack still, who’d die for him. Chase Edmunds, Kate Warner, others. Only a few. Probably not enough. But that won’t stop us from trying.”

Turning she let her dark hair cover her face and the raw expression on her face. “I have too much responsibility and no room for being pregnant or raising a child.” Her shoulders rose and fell with her weary sigh that contradicted the snappish tone. “There’s only one thing I care about at the moment, Agent Doyle. Are you with us or not?” The demand was unintentionally harsh.

Someone else must have taken over his mouth because Doyle replied, “Dammit, O’Brien, I’m with you.” For Jack. For a man he barely even knew he was agreeing to this lunacy. But there was something in Chloe’s face, something in the way Milo spoke about him. These people, smart and cynical, /believed/ in Jack Bauer beyond all thought or reason. Somewhere along the line, Mike had starting believing too.

Chloe shoved a second pillow behind herself haughtily. “Get my laptop. And your cell. I’ll tell you who to call and what to say.”

Fic: Wild Horses

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 02:26:05 GMT

Title: Wild Horses
Rating: R (For Lancelot's use of French)
Summary: No Roman will ever be able to break Lancelot. But Arthur knows there's ways around that. You just have to look.
A/N: First KA fic ever. It's a little slashy but I suppose you could read it as gen too. I'm not good at judging these things.

Trying to control Lancelot was very similar to hanging onto an unbroken horse as it was bucking you off. It gave Arthur a headache. “They are our orders, Lancelot. We must obey them.”

Cat-like and stand-offish in his anger, the slimmer, dark-eyed man balanced on the edge of the wall. He kept pace with his commander as his soft leather boots trotted down the stone work. “I do not particularly care what our orders are, Arthur,” he replied in his usual insubordinate manner.

Rubbing a hand across his face the older man order, “Lancelot, get down from there. I cannot talk when you are behaving so recklessly.” He reached up with one hand, not touching the lean back for fear of unbalancing his knight. Lancelot gave him an exasperated look, but when he narrowed his eyes the knight jumped gracefully onto the walkway in front of him.

“Better?” Crossing his arms the knight took his usually position on Arthur’s right side. It was common sense the kept him away from the older man’s left side. If Arthur drew his sword, Lancelot didn’t want to be in the way of the blade.

Arthur looked at his knight out of the corner of his eye. “A bit. Must you always do that?” Seeing the arrogant look he sighed and gave up pressing this point. Early on he learned that Lancelot allowed himself few surrenders. So Arthur picked his battles carefully and never, ever flaunted his victories. Doing so would land him with an even more rebellious Lancelot. And then he himself would end up jumping off some particularly high part of the wall out of sheer frustration.

Lift his hands, Lancelot shrugged. “I am as the gods made me, Arthur.” Despite his cocky smile his eyes roiled angrily just beneath the dark irises.

“You believe in no God,” Arthur snapped. His annoyance with the younger man was clear.

Narrowing his eyes, Lancelot hissed, “I believe in no gods, Arthur, only a man. A man who will lead us all to death if we follow these bloody orders.”

The words kicked Arthur in the gut. Automatically he reached out and cupped the bearded cheek, stroking the delicate bones of the handsome face with his callused thumb. “I would not lead you death, my knight,” he soothed as the dark eyes accused him.

“Yes, you would,” was the harsh assessment. “For your damned god and thrice damned Rome you would lead us all through the dark gates.”

Arthur bit his tongue to keep from shouting. After counting backwards from ten in Latin, Greek, and Sarmatian, he finally was able to speak but couldn’t help the chill in his tone. “If that is what you think of me, then far be from me to disappoint you, Lancelot.” His hand dropped away from the proud face as he turned the man’s name into an insult.

Bowing scornfully, Lancelot replied, “As you wish, Castus. After all, we are all yours to do with what you will.” His deep gray cloak flared as he turned on heel. Every line in his body was tight with rage and Arthur couldn’t miss the feral spark in his eye. Heads were going to roll in the barracks, and all the knights were going to blame their commander for Lancelot’s foul mood.

Galahad took one look at the coming storm that way the leanest of the Sarmatian knights and ran to find Gawain. If the gods smiled on him Gawain would know where Tristan was and could put the scout in Lancelot’s path before someone got killed.

He scrambled through the window of the stables and found Dagonet brushing his horse. “Tristan?” he asked in a panicked tone.

The scarred man gave him an odd look and Galahad hurriedly explained, “Lancelot’s coming this way. And that fool Castus has pissed him off again. I do not want to be the one he catches up to.” He shuddered hard, rubbing his side in remembrance of the bruises the twin blades had left on his body the last time Lancelot had cornered him in a rage.

Dagonet thought for a long moment, his strokes over his horses arched neck never wavering. “I saw Tristan out with his bird. Looking for supper most likely.”

“Oh fuck…” Galahad closed his eyes and tried to decide what to do. Finally he asked, “Can I stay here with you?”

The strange man shrugged. “If you’d like.” That was invitation enough for the youngest knight to pick up a brush and start on the horses other side. If he looked busy maybe Lancelot would pass him by.

Even the legionaries stepped out of Lancelot’s path as he stalked down the halls of the fort. Most were wiser than to tangle with the Sarmatian knight when he was in this mood. While he normally refrained from killing Romans on the practice fields, right now he’d probably do it just for kicks.

Gawain stepped into the hall, testing the weight of his freshly honed blade. One look at his friend and he quickly sheathed his knife before Lancelot could get ideas. Holding up one hand the paler knight said, “No,” loudly and firmly.

Baring his teeth like an angry wolf, the dark Sarmatian tromped past him, his boot hitting the floor too heavily. Gawain groaned and loped down to the stable to saddle his mount. Best get Tristan here to abate the rising storm before it reached its full howling fury and some idiot Roman got his face pounded in.

She screamed in the distance, making Tristan smile. Raising his gauntlet covered fist he gave a long, low whistle. He gave her no name because free things shouldn’t be bound by the tongues of men. So he just called her ‘faithful friend’ and left it at that.

The hawk flared her wings, dropping the rabbit into his lap, and landed on his glove. “Thank you, friend,” he told her in his native tongue, stroking her feathers with one finger. She turned her head and looked at him with one black eye. “Yes. You will have your share soon enough.”

Adding the broken body to his brace of rabbits, Tristan sat the hawk on his shoulder and turned his horse to ride back towards the garrison. He raised one eyebrow when he saw Gawain loping towards him on a rangy chestnut. His own mount lengthened its stride to meet the other knight.

Hand raised, Gawain turned his steed so the horses cantered in parallel. “Castus has woken Lancelot’s temper once again,” the more social knight informed his compatriot. “I fear there will be blood before the day is over. Roman blood if you are not there to curb our two-bladed fiend. He’ll listen to no sense from any of the rest of us.”

Tristan processed the words before replying with his usual brevity. “I will do what I may.” His heels tapped his gelding’s sides as he asked for more speed. The sturdy legs increase their stride and the man settled himself into the motion.

By the time he arrived at the fortress, he was too late. There, in the middle of the main thruway was Lancelot. His slim, strong body tangled with the bulkier frame of a centurion. Fuck.

In a graceful leap Tristan dismounted and ran over. The closer he got the more obvious it was the Lancelot intended to kill the Roman with his bare hands. The wild abandon in his smile and the mad glint in his eyes attested to just how far Castus had driven him this time. There was nothing Tristan himself could do to stop the battlelust that had taken his friend but he could divert it.

Reaching out the silent knight laid his hands around Lancelot’s white throat and pulled. With a loud snarl the slim figure turned and tackled Tristan. A tight fist raised but then Lancelot laughed a howling noise that made everyone except Tristan shudder. To the scout’s disgust, the fool Roman stood. In a flash, the dark knight was on him again.

This time Tristan did not help. There was simply nothing to be done. Whatever the centurion had said or done had set the already fuming Lancelot on this self-destructive path and nothing was going to change that.

Of course, Castus couldn’t help but interfere. Tristan considered warning the commander as he ran towards them yelling, “Lancelot! Lancelot, cease this!” Instead he took a few steps back and watched.

Arthur wrapped his arms around the slender knight and lifted. Unfortunately Lancelot had locked his legs around his victim so the older man ended up lifting the centurion off the ground as well. Cursing as his spine popped he drove his fist into the taut stomach to force his knight to release the man.

Flexible as a goddamn cat, Lancelot twisted and sank his teeth into the Roman’s shoulder. Arthur smirked as tooth marks were placed in his thick, leather jerkin. With a high-pitched growl of annoyance, the smaller man whipped one arm free and managed to smack his commander in the face.

Rather than strike back as the centurion had done, Arthur started walking, carrying his struggling, clawing burden with great care. If he could stay calm eventually Lancelot would quiet. As he strode towards the stables, the knight’s favorite place, he spoke softly enough only the other soldier could hear. “Easy, my knight.” He didn’t dare to say anything more that could spark the flaring rage that was slowly reducing to a smolder.

Without a thought, Arthur chose the sweetest smelling bales of hay to pin Lancelot down on. He continued talking in that soft, steady voice that drove the Sarmatian insane. The lean body continued to jerk and buck as the Roman used his greater bodyweight to simply hold him in place. Foreign curses flew fast and thick, aimed at everyone and everything except the horses that surrounded them.

Arthur just sighed as Lancelot tapered off by cursing the Christian god into the deepest pit of hell. Raising an eyebrow he asked, “Finished?” Which set off a whole other rant that made him wish he’d stayed silent.

After that was done the commander carefully pulled back, knowing the strength of his grip and the knight’s own struggles would leave bruises. “I think you scared the horses,” Arthur told him blandly. He reached down to cup the rough jaw once more.

Lancelot leaned into the touch and laughed, loud and long. Arthur sighed as he caressed the smooth cheekbone. There was no way to protect his knight from the punishment that was surely coming. Even if he could find a way to excuse his own bruised face, the centurion would certainly not. “God grant me strength,” he whispered too quietly for the other man to hear. “Please Lord, keep him safe and strong.”

The garrison commandant’s decision was swift and harsh. Thirty lashes to be laid across Lancelot’s already scarred back. At first, Arthur had pleaded to be allowed to discipline his own man, arguing he couldn’t ride out short one man, especially his second. The commandant, not a total fool, had snarled, “Then you shall not ride, Artorius Castus.” Then he ordered forty lashes, enough to kill a man. Arthur had managed to bargain down to twenty lashes for the centurion’s pain and ten for Lancelot’s attack on himself.

Angered by the dark knight’s willingness to sacrifice his slender form, Arthur strode down the barracks where the rest of his knights waited. Pacing in front of them, his frustration obvious, he snapped, “Before supper, Lancelot will be flogged. Thirty lashes.” He paused, looking over his remaining five men. “We will not ride past the wall on the morrow.” It was his only acquiescence to Lancelot’s victory. More softly he added, “If this ever happens again, Lancelot’s will not be the only Sarmatian blood shed.”

With a flick of her scarlet cape he returned to his own quarters. He needed Jols to help him prepare for tonight. Lancelot flatly refused to see a Roman doctor. In fact, the only times he was treated by someone other than Tristan or Gawain was when he was too close to death to notice. Which happened far too often in Arthur’s humble opinion. So in order to appease both of them, Arthur was determined to care for Lancelot himself.

Tristan met Lancelot as the post as the legionaries shackled the accused into place. The two spoke softly for a moment and the scout discretely press a cut of thick leather into his friend’s mouth. It was small enough Lancelot could conceal it’s presence from the Romans but large enough to protect his tongue from his teeth should he bite down to muffle his cries.

Like a ghost, Tristan faded back into the rest of the knights, his duty done.

Arrogant in their shining armor, the Roman’s lined up where they can see Lancelot’s face. The knight’s dark eyes immediately searched out his commander. Arthur looked positively mutinous. The thought made him laugh through the salty piece of strap. Arthur rebelling against his precious Rome was about as likely as him finally admitting the nonexistence of his god.

With a knowing smirk firmly in place, Lancelot listened with half an ear to the harsh language as his crime and punishment were announced. How many times had he done this? More than he cared to remember. This was the first time Arthur would see it though. He hoped Tristan would keep the older man from doing anything too stupid.

It was a mistake to get involved in his thoughts. He wasn’t prepared for the first lash and nearly spat out the strap as his eyes watered fiercely. Mithras! He’d forgotten how it burned. Blinking the tears away he grinned at the commandant, taunting him with his eyes. The second stripe hurt worse than the first and he knew it’d only continue to build.

Tristan stood behind his commander and murmured, “Don’t worry about him, Castus. He’ll survive.” He watched stolidly as blood began trickling down Lancelot’s back like wine on white linen. The Roman flinched with each crack but Tristan did not. Instead he slowly began carving up an apple. The sweet taste would clean the copper out of Lancelot’s mouth when the time came.

Lancelot was still smiling when they uncuffed his wrists and let him fall to the ground. The dirt around him was slick, red mud. Someone spoke and two sets of arms lifted him from the front, avoiding his seeping back. Hard and moist an apple piece was pushed into his mouth and the leather removed. Tristan then, and Gawain probably. His smirk remained rigidly in place as he was carried passed the officers.

A cry from the line of Romans and he stopped moving. Arthur’s hands lifted the handsome face up. “My knight,” he said gently. “My knight, what have they done to you?” Lancelot just kept smirking. “Take him to my quarters, Tristan. Jols already set out everything we need to care for him.”

Gawain and Tristan put Lancelot face down on Arthur’s cot. The blond pulled up a fur to just bellow the curve of the long back. He glanced around, seeing the stacks and rolls of bandages lined up next to pots of salve and a bottle of wine. It was a cheap vintage, probably not for drinking.

Outside in the hallway, Arthur argued with a commandant. “You don’t train a warhorse by beating it half to death. It bitters the animal, breaks its spirit and makes it useless. Better gentle the wild thing. Feed it, care for it, acclimate it to your touch. Let it love you and you love it. Respect it and it will respect you. He will respect you.” The half-Briton turned to look through the door at the man on the bed. “And with God’s grace, he may even curb his temper if you ask.”

In a swirl of scarlet the Arthur left the commandant to tend to his friend. His cloak pooling by the brazier, he stripped off his armor until he was down to his shirt, breeches, and boots. The cheap wine went into a bowel. The Roman dipped a piece of linen in the dark fluid and squeezed it over the raw back.

Lancelot’s moan was muffled by the fur beneath him. The wine made his wounds burn. To make matters worse the wine was followed by salt and honey. “Roman dog,” he spat, his back arching and twisting the wounds. “Devils take you…”

“Shh,” Arthur ran his fingers through the dark curls. “Shh. I’m sorry, Lancelot. That had to be done.” A length of off-white linen was smoothed over the torn flesh to keep any flies off the sticky salve.

Someone was touching his face in a rhythmic, smoothing motion much like his mother used to. Mumbling in his native tongue Lancelot turned his face into the rough palm. It was hypnotic. A glazed cup was pressed against his mouth. Warm, sweet wine dribbled through his lips. It hit the back of his throat and made him cough. A soft cloth wiped away what he sputtered up.

“Oh Lancelot,” a familiar voice sighed. “Why must you antagonize them so?”

Coughing the dark knight replied. “Those fucking Romans think of nothing but themselves and their precious empire. They beat a man to the ground as easily as a horse to tame him.” Dark eyes opening he hissed, “And I will not be tamed.”

With a deep sigh Gawain nodded in acceptance. He expected nothing else from Lancelot of Sarmatia. “Arthur’s not happy with you.”

“When is he ever happy with me?” Lancelot replied, slowly sitting up. His back twisted and stretched. He could almost taste the crack as the slashed welts flexed with the muscles. “Who was sent in our place?” Sitting up made his head spin and stomach churn. A hard swallow forced the gorge down.

Gawain stood back, knowing Lancelot would not welcome his assistance. “An infantry patrol. None returned.” The other man’s hoarse laugh made him wince. “Arthur’s still not happy.”

The rough cloth of the black tunic rekindled the stinging fire left by the lash. Jaw stiff, Lancelot refused to yield to the discomfort and slowly slipped into his leathers. “How long have I been abed?”

“Two sunsets.” Gawain knelt and pointedly held one of Lancelot’s boots. Sighing the dark knight accepted his help. “Arthur wanted to keep you in his quarters but some Roman officials made an unexpected visit. The officers were forced to bunk double so we moved you back to the barracks.”

Lancelot stood cautiously, pleased to find the room wasn’t spinning as badly as it had in the past. “Fine. When is our next patrol?” His steps were mincing as he tested his coordination. Wielding both his blades would not be pleasurable for a long time to come. Damn the Romans. That was worse than any other punishment they could dole out. His blades were one of the only sources of gratification he had in this damned place.

Raising one eyebrow, Gawain sighed. “No.”

“What?” the dark knight asked mulishly.

The blonde man looked unfazed. “Whatever is forming in that demonic mind of yours-no. Tristan and I will not stand for it. You need to heal.” Gently he took both of Lancelot’s forearms in his hand. It was a liberty only allowed to Tristan, and occasionally Gawain and Dagonet when the dark knight needed the comfort. Not that Lancelot would ever admit he needed human contact or love from any except his horse.

With a smile that had fooled the less wary, Lancelot murmured, “What gave you that idea?” Still smiling he started for the tapestry covered door.

“Mithras,” Gawain hissed to himself. “Lancelot!” He moved to chase the other man.

Tristan saw his dark friend trying to escape Gawain’s ministrations and smiled to himself. Silently he stepped in the other knight’s path. “Come.” Lancelot didn’t question. Still walking tentatively he moved after the scout.

The camp was far from quiet. But Tristan made sure neither of them was seen by the ebb and flow of dirt-encrusted humanity. His goal was the darkened stables, smelling of sweet hay and horseflesh. A single lamp burned in the center where the saddles were kept. In the pool of flickering yellow light sat Arthur, soft cloth in hand. His shoulders were stooped with invisible weight. It rested on him all the time, burning out his green eyes as slowly and surely as if Lancelot was poisoning his commander.

There was only one remedy for this nonsense. “Does he have anything to say?” the dark knight demanded impudently.

“Who?” Puzzled, the Roman looked up from his menial work. Relief flickered across his expression at the familiar insubordination.

Picking his way to avoid any piles of dung left by lazy stable hands, Lancelot made his way over to his commander’s side. “Your god. Does he have anything to say?”

“Yes, actually. My darkest knight is going to drive me to an early grave. He advised me to keep your reins tight, lest you get the bit between your teeth again.” Arthur’s words were softened by the warmth in his tone. Dropping the cloth carelessly to the dust covered floor he reached out to cup Lancelot’s cheek. “My knight,” he shook his head, “oh, my knight, why must you torment me so?”

Rough calluses made the soft skin just below the Sarmatian’s eye tingle softly. “You torment yourself, Arthur. I wish no pain on you. I have not since the day I truly met you.” He leaned into the touch. His lithe body fit itself into Arthur’s stockier side. “My pain is not yours, my lord. Do not make it so.”

Arthur shook his head again. “Do not say that, my Lancelot. You stopped what I could not prevent. You stopped it with your blood. How can I not hurt for you?” Ever so delicately he laid a finger against the cloth covering the slim back. There was a hard flinch and he pulled back.

“Pain is a fleeting thing, Arthur. I’ll heal yet.” Lancelot smiled arrogantly.

“But you shan’t kneel,” the Roman replied forcefully. “And they will keep trying to break you, my wild knight. And you will not bow your head before the lash, proud as any wild stallion that would rather die than be broken. They will take you from me. And all I shall have of you is pain.”

Dark eyes stormy Lancelot snarled, “I will not be broken like an unruly pony and forced to my knees. I would rather slit my own throat. That is not pain, that is freedom. Or as much like freedom as a man can find in this land.”

The Roman took a deep breath and quelled his rising frustration. “There is more than one way to tame a horse, Lancelot. And there is no reason you cannot go to your knees of your own accord.”

The darker knight snorted. “What would drive a man to that?” he demanded. “Servitude is still servitude. A bit is a bit no mater how fine the bridle.”

“Love,” Arthur replied quietly. “A man who loves gives himself to willing slavery.” His fingers curved carefully around the fine jaw.

Lancelot’s eyes dropped to the floor. The silence mocked him but he had nothing to say. He had consigned himself to bridle and saddle long ago. But he only allowed one man the privilege of using them. Arthur had tamed him long ago with a gentle word and gentler touch. Love, after all, was far more insidiously binding than any fear.

Fic: Unnatural Rhythms

Fri, 30 Mar 2007 04:11:51 GMT

Title: Unnatural Rhythms
Author: asp0_5
Rating: K+
Summary: This is the one time she wishes she could see what was someone else was feeling.
A/N: One of the lovely manifestations of AS is mindblindness. I can't read people for shit. It makes emotionally intense situations very uncomfortable because I have a hard time telling how to respond without someone explaining it to me.

Chase walked numbly into the small house and dropped his coat on a hook. It tumbled to the floor but he didn’t turn to look. Kicking off his boots as he walked he moved from cool linoleum to rough, cheap carpet.

Everything on the walls was perfectly straight. Everything in order, always order. There’s only one thing missing and he can fix that easily enough. With a weary sigh he dropped down to the ground in front of the blue couch. Chloe looked down her nose at him. “You look like crap.”

“But I’m here,” he replied softly, leaning his head back against her knee. He sat at her feet like some sort of pet, legs splayed in front of him like an awkward stork. Sighing she reached out to pet him with one hand while she worked. The movement was rhythmic and meant to soothe herself as much as him. Her world was in order now.

And order was everything to Chloe. She had her routine when she came home from the chaos of CTU. It never changed. Even minor adjustments agitated her. But somehow Chase had eased his way into her routine. He accepted the thing that drove her personality as well as her genius without a blink.

Now in a new city, in a place where she didn’t know anyone, there was a relief at least Chase would never change.

Only he did. She was used to him coming back a little different from something he’d seen in the field. But never like this. Never like this with blood and God knew what else smeared on his chin and mouth and across his cheeks and nose. He was rocking and crying and all she could do was pet and pet. Her lips formed soft words saying, “Hush, hush…” God, she didn’t even have a name to call him. Edmunds was too cold, Chase too common. So she just said, “Hush, hush.”

Her world was in order, but he was crying and she didn’t know how to make him stop.

Fic: The Coffee Pot Episode

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 03:38:30 GMT

Title: The Coffee Pot Episode
Author: asp0_5
Rating: K
Summary: Things all have places. Please don't try to move them.
A/N: Based on an actual problem I had. With Chase being played by my ever lovely spousal unit.

Jack never really thought about it. He just did. After all, those coffee filters were damnably hard to find behind the creamers, sugars, and various other containers. So he moved the box down from the second shelf to beneath the cabinet of the small resource area he had converted into a break area to share with his partner and the kid’s tech.

The next morning he came in and found Chloe staring at the second shelf blankly. She usually started the coffee when she came in a seven so it was done when Jack and Chase arrived ten or fifteen minutes later.

Containers from the second shelf were neatly lined up along the counter as Chloe stared in horror at the empty space. Giving her an odd look, Jack asked, “Chloe?”

In a monotone she answered, “The coffee filters are gone.”

“I moved them.” Jack reached down and pulled out the box. Chloe snatched it out of his hands and clutched it close. Her shoulders rose and fell in a deep, shuddering sigh. Scowling at him she started to make coffee.

Jack shook his head and walked into his office. When he went out to get his coffee, the coffee filters were there on the second shelf behind everything else. Reaching up he lifted them down to put them back in the lower cabinet. Slim hands snatched it away. “No, they go up there.” Chloe stood on her tip-toes to slide the filters back into their slot on the second shelf.

Reaching up, Jack took them and started to put them back down in the cabinet. When Chloe tried to move them he knocked her hands away. Her cheek turned bright pink and her eyes narrowed. “They go on the second shelf,” she insisted.

“They stay in the cabinet.”

“No. They go on the second shelf because they’re accoutrements. And all accoutrements to go with the coffee are on the second shelf.” Her jaw jutted out defiantly.

Jack took a deep breath, then another. “Chloe, leave the damned filters in the cabinet where I can get to them.”

The woman’s flush deepened and she opened her mouth then closed it. Finally, hands held stiffly by her sides, she walked back to her desk and sat down. Her shoulders swayed slightly as she started pounding away on her keyboard.

Five minutes later, Chase walked in. Chloe looked at him once and said flatly, “I don’t like your shirt.”

He yawned and poured himself some coffee. “Does it bother you too much.”

“No, it’s just stupid.”

“Okay.” Sipping the scalding liquid he settled against the side of her desk and watched her for a moment. “What’s wrong, Chlo?”

She hesitated for a long moment then said quietly, “Jack put the coffee filters in the wrong place. They go on the second shelf.”

Chase looked over at the filters, then at his partner and sighed. “Why do they go on the second shelf?”

“The second shelf is for coffee accoutrements,” she explained, looking at him like he was being slow.

“I see.” Chase considered. “Define accoutrement.”

“An accessory, something that is not necessary but added,” she replied promptly.

Nodding to himself, Chase said slowly, “But filters aren’t accoutrements, Chloe. You have to have them to make coffee.” He reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Jack’s still wrong. They go next to the coffee pot.”

With a relieved smile she stood up and moved the filters next to the coffee pot. Sitting back down at her desk, no longer rocking, she told him, “Your shirt is still stupid.”

He shrugged. “I know.” Finishing off the rest of the liquid in his mug, he re-filled it and went to his own desk.