Jack cooks dinner that night, which is rare but not a special occasion. The way Jack's mind works, translating instinct to action without rationalization, is hard to understand and prone to random romanticism. If he has a bad day, or she does, or she has been acting distant, he suddenly decides to spare them both the monotony of microwave dinner.
Today, she had a meeting at the White House. She had thought it would be a meeting with the Chief of Staff; by the time she was finished, it was a meeting with the President and two Cabinet Secretaries. After, needing to think, she had gone to the gym down the street where jealous forty-something housewives glared at the skinny form she had developed over months of depression. She ignored them as well as she could and ran herself halfway to death on a treadmill, and kept on running after.
Over chicken and risotto, Jack makes casual conversation. He doesn't press about her meeting. He doesn't even not press. He makes easy small talk instead, talking about his adventures in the grocery store and the best new trailers for movies. He doesn't really talk much, just whenever something comes to him, and she speaks less.
But she does say it, finally. "They offered me a job."
"Uh-huh."
"They said they offered you one too. You didn't tell me."
Jack puts his fork down, which means he's willing to acknowledge this is a real conversation. Often, when they fight, he won't give here even that. He says "I said no. There wasn't anything to discuss."
"No," says Renee. "But there wasn't anything to hide, either."
"Renee," he says. He reaches out a hand, across the table, to rest on top of her own. "I thought you understood. I'm out. Forever."
"Forever's a long time," she snaps. She can't bring herself, though, to pull her hand away. They both stare at their mingled hands.
"No," Jack says. "It isn't." He withdraws himself away from her. He doesn't shrink into his seat, the way others would, but rather grows more solid. He looks like a carving of Jack Bauer. He says "I don't have all the time in the world."
And he doesn't. That's one of the things they don't talk about - not because they're afraid of it, not quite, but because they don't have anything to say. He's been tortured, shocked, shot, infected, and stabbed, and even retired they're not counting his life expectancy in decades.
"I like my life," he says. "I'm not getting sucked into anything that can ruin that."
And she knows that, and knew it before they had dinner. Still, his certainty infuriates her. "Well," she says, "Maybe I've still got something to offer." Renee finds hersef suddenly considering actually taking the job. All she had told the President was that she needed to talk it over with Jack. Had she known then, Renee wonders, this was how the discussion would go?
Jack doesn't seem to have anything to say to that. Renee knows that he's a little stuck when it comes to her. Much as he wants to show he trusts her, he knows she's in danger - in more ways than one, really - when she's out in the field.
She softens just a fraction. He deserves that. She says "It's just consulting, Jack. Reviewing intelligence and advising. A little coordinating. There's no field work."
"Do you really believe that?"
Jack won't give in. Giving in is not exactly Jack's thing. When they fight, it always ends the same way. She grabs her keys and heads out, looking for solace in the open air. Sometimes they need distance.
Out on the street, at eight in the evening, New York is buzzing. It was the city that never slept before there were a thousand like that, and it is not eager to give up the claim. She smiles at the kids, bar-hopping with their fake IDs, and at the husbands, slipping their rings back on as they sneak out (and into) the least gentlemanly gentleman's clubs, and at the respectable couples bickering over their evening's plans. Watching them, Renee realizes she feels halfways separated from these people. She feels like their mother. She feels only an amused, tolerant love for them. Her children have flaws, not least among them their utter naiveté, but she does not begrudge them that.
She's only blocks from Central Park, but it's after dark and there are safer places in the city. She hits up a coffee shop nearby instead. Over a coffee (cream, no sugar, the middle where she and Jack met), she thinks about the people she loves. She thinks about these strangers, who her friends have died to save, who never knew nor cared what her friends' names were. She thinks about her mother, living alone in Bethesda, still walking her dog every day at seventy. It takes something, and Renee isn't sure what, to decide to get a pet at sixty-three. It's something Renee is pretty sure she doesn't have and is almost certain she will never try to develop.
Come to think of it, all of her friends have been FBI co-workers, or Jack's CTU buddies. She stopped making friends outside of work, stopped even paying attention to overtures from men she didn't work with. Even Jack, come to think of it. For months after every operation, she finds herself using the wrong skills with civilians, playing at being undercover instead of polite. Instead of honest.
These asps of self-loathing and self-doubt are familiar ones. But she knows the truth. She's already made her decision. Jack's lost so many lovers, so many friends, so many years of his own life to his service, but Renee hasn't lost quite so much as he. She has, she thinks, a little more to give.
She calls Tim Woods.
Actually, she calls DHS, and is forwarded to his assistant, and is put through to him. "That's good to hear," he says. "The President's eager to get your take. When can you start?"
"Um." There might still come a time when being on friendly terms with the President of the United States would stop being weird, but it hasn't yet. "Monday?"
"Great. I'll make sure they have a White House office ready for you by the time you get in."
And that makes it settled, so she goes home. Jack is doing the dishes, which makes her feel guilty even though he always does the dishes.
"I'm taking the job," she says, watching his back. She's good at that.
Jack slumps. Renee tries one step toward him, but no more. She worries that any more and he'll think she's movable. She's never sure, with Jack; if he thinks she can be convinced, she might turn out to be.
"Jack-"
"Fine," he says. "It's fine."
It isn't fine. There's nothing she can say. Maybe if they slept on it.
They do fuck that night. With the lights off, his scars catching the glimmers that slip through the blinds (it's never really dark in New York), Jack is uncharacteristically gentle. Usually he holds on so tight it might leave bruises, so tight she had to push him away more than once in the early days, and pushes until he has nothing left to push with. Tonight he is gentle. Renee can't figure out if he's scared of her job or of himself. She doesn't pry.
The next morning is Saturday morning, a September Saturday when the temperature is just starting to fall after the sweltering August. Seventy-two degreees in the afternoon today, but in the morning it's even cooler and the feeling of her hair raising is a relief.
Jack makes breakfast - his second meal cooked in a row, which means he's really worried. They still don't talk about it. She checks the World News pages and he stares at box scores. When the afternoon comes he calls his daughter. It's Saturday, and he always calls his daughter on Saturdays. Renee gives him space.
Out on the street, she thinks of calling her mother. "I've taken a job in D.C.," she would say.
"That's great," her mother would say. "Are you going to come visit? Are you going to bring that guy you're sleeping with? Where are you working?"
"In the White House."
"Oh," her mother would say. Her voice would be flat. Her mother was a Democrat, and Allison Taylor wasn't, and that was enough for her mother. Jack doesn't vote, not since David Palmer got run out of office.
Renee finds herself buying a hot dog and a soda and heading into the park. She can sit and eat by the pond and listen to the amateur musicians, though it will be packed because it's Saturday. When she coems back an hour later, Jack's still on the phone. She passes him with her mouth drawn as he says something like "We've been living out of a hotel here anyway. And she's from there. I think it'll be easier than staying here, actually."
She settles on the couch and turns on the news, the volume low. Political bullshit about gun control, which is apparently a big issue this campaign.
"I know," says Jack. "But that was when I didn't have any other responsibilities. I can't ask her to-"
As he breaks off, the television goes to commercial. Beer makes you handsome, it says. But drink responsibly.
"I know. I know you - Kim," he says, then "Kim, I've got another call. Yes, really."
Renee turns to look at him. He isn't smiling. Jack's pinching the bridge of his nose, which he almost never does.
"Hello," he says. "Yes. One second."
Jack stands up from his seat in their little kitchen. Then he walks over to her, his face giving nothing away.
He presents her with the handset. "The White House," he says.
Renee takes the phone, and Jack walks away, still betraying nothing. He goes into the bedroom, leaving the door just barely ajar. "Hello?"
"Miss Walker?" It is a woman's voice, cracked and low with age.
"Yes."
"My name is Mabel Middenvale - I'm one of the President's secretaries. I was aked to forward - let's see - here it is. Ah, the President will be in Manchester on Monday for the convention. I understand she wanted you to go up and speak with her directly."
"Oh. Uh. Okay." No, that is never going to be normal. "Thanks."
Dinner is takeout Chinese, which Jack went to get, which meant he is - if not satisfied - ready to treat the issue as settled. The eat in the kitchen, in silence, which is ordinary. Silence is good for them. Silence is peace. Peace is rest. Hate leads to the dark side, or something.
Over dishes, he asks "When do you want to move?"
It's a good question. She hasn't considered, really, and she knows she should have. "I don't have anything here," she says. "Except you."
Jack smiles. His hand emerges from the suds to clasp hers. "I'm so scared," he says.
"It's a desk job outside the chain of command," she says.
"I know," he says. "But I just remember - when something happens, they grab anyone with field experience and damn the chain of command."
"It's at the White House, Jack. Not CTU, not NSA, not FBI - Jack. I can't stop going touside because someone might commit a crime near me."
"I know," he says again. Jack's good at saying I know. It doesn't mean quite what it means when most people say it. But he doesn't confront her. He hands her the plate, completely clean, and she shelves it. "I'll find a hotel in the city for us," he says.
"I'd like that."
And the rest of the weekend is fine, and on Monday morning, obscenely early because she's on the President's time now, Jack watches her dress, hunger in his eyes, and she almost doesn't make it out the door. Part of it is the feeling of being genuinely desired, by a man she desires too, without pretense. The other part is how incredibly sexy Jack is.
In New Hampshire, she is asked to wait for four hoursfor the President's next free moment. This, too, is being on the President's time. She spies Ethan Kanin walking up to her, away from the crowds of delegates back where security is lighter, bearing a bagel and coffee.
Renee takes both gratefully when they are offered.
"Miss Walker," says Mister Kanin. "Welcome to the team."
"Thank you," says Renee.
"I've been consulting myself," he says. "I don't have the stamina for a real job anymore, but the President called." He offers a helpless half-smile. "Anyway, there's a lot of this - sitting and waiting. There's only so many times you can reread memos. I usually bring a book."
"Must go through a lot," says Renee. She feels obligated to keep the small-talk going, to validate his effort.
"You have no idea," says Kanin. Then, grinning, "But you will. Come to think of it, one of the speechwriters has a Game Boy. Though I don't think they're called Game Boys anymore."
It's hard not to like Kanin. He just might be the most influential man in the country, so it's reassuring to know he's more like her grandfather than anything.
"I should be honest with you," says Kanin. "I didn't like it when the President suggested we bring you on. Not - " he continues - "because I don't like you. Because you're a political landmine, quite frankly."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Well, Miss Walker," says Kanin, as they both wait leaning against the wall. The President told me that we do the right thing first and focus on selling it later, and she was right. Whoever gives you crap, you should remember - we brought you on because you were the woman for the job."
Renee thinks about that while she eats her bagel.
Later the President is saying "The details of the agreement aren't really important. It's the location. Den Haag."
"Den Haag?"
"The Hague," says Time Woods helpfully.
"In the Netherlands?" Then, aiming for something a little less stupid, she says "The first hurdle will be getting clearance from the Dutch to do security ourselves. Then we'll need liaisons from the major intelligence agencies in the area. And probably to them, also. The British and Germans are the big players in Western European intelligence right now."
Though the President's blank look is a little unnerving, Kanin and Woods are smiling.
Kanin says "Sounds like you're right on top of things."
She doesn't blush.
When she gets back on the bus in the eveinng, her phone is crammed with contract information. The Director of CTU. The director of CIA. The National Security Administration. Two Undersecretaries of Defense, and one of State, and Ethan Kanin's home phone number. "In case there's an emergency," he says. She had even stuck around for the President's address, delivered in her endearing wasn't-born-to-be-an-orator style.
And she opens the door of their shared hotel suite and finds Jack sitting there in the living area, though it's now nearly midnight, watching the television. A movie, it looks like, but she doesn't recognize it.
"Hey," she calls, setting down her purse and hanging her jacket.
Jack turns to look at her, still unblinking. His mouth tightens. Renee thinks he might be trying to smile.
"You didn't have to wait up," she says.
"I know," he says.
They go to bed, but everything is not okay.
It takes them a week to move. Actually, they could have done it in half the time, but they decide together that it would be better to wait for the weekend. They've got nothing to move but their bodies and a box of memories. Meanwhile she takes the bus to work. It means waking up beore six and getting back after ten every day, and spending about half the intervening time on public transportation.
Jack is waiting up for her every time she comes home. He won't talk about it. He just sits there, watching movies like "Rush Hour 2" and "The Scorpion King" while she makes her way back to him.
It takes until Thursday for Renee to confess to him. "There's going to be a summit in The Hague," she says. "Next month. They're going to need me there." In her defense, it had only occured to her that day that they would want her. She should have realized before.
"How long?" asks Jack.
"I don't know. Probably about a week."
He nods. His face is dangerously empty. She's not sure what that means.
"Jack?"
"You think you can handle this?"
"Yeah, Jack, I do."
He nods again, his afce still bank, and goes to bed. They lie there, side by side, staring at the ceiling.
They move on Saturday to a nice hotel in Washington. The whole thing takes four and a half hours, almost all of it on a bus. The routine goes on. Jack calls his daughter. Renee explores the city, imagining them arguing about her. She likes that they argue about her, in an especially disturbed corner of her mind. Her insecurities are put to rest when he sticks up for her the way he does. Of course she already knows the city, knows the name of the hot dog vendor half a block from the Hoover Building, knows when it's better to walk an extra couple blocks to get the right Metro line and not to brave the Metro Center bustle. They don't have her kinds of heroes at the Mall, just memorials of the great statesmen. There will never be a monument to Jack Bauer, and Larry's memorial is his name on the list on a wall in the Hoover Building. And the crawl-through ducts at the Spy Museum.
That Monday is a difficult day. The CIA director, Ed Pescell, is territorial, and it's not surprising that he's managed to alienate the head of SIS - himself a man not used to being questioned. Woods tasks her with mending fences. That's the afternoon down the drain. Then she finds herself in a meeting with the President and half the upper crust of the military about recent posturing in Syria. She has to pay attention, because she knows the President is going to ask for her take.
And some talking head on CNN has seized on her hiring as evidence of the President's loose moral values.
"We all knew it was coming," says Kanin. His hands are in his pockets, and he's smiling that pursed-lips smile. "We knew it was coming, and we brought you on anyway. What does that tell you?"
Kanin is good at making her smile, and Renee almost is when she leaves work at the end of that crappy day. Then she goes home to their new hotel room, and Jack is sitting there at their little kitchenette table.
"Hey," she says."
"Renee," says Jack. "i need to say something."
So she crosses to sit beside him. His hand goes to the sleeve of her jacket. He fiddles with it as he speaks.
"I can't sit here while you go out into danger and just do nothing. I have to do something."
"Great," says Renee. "The President will be glad to have you on board. We'll have to clear a seat on Air Force One, but-"
"Renee."
"Yes?"
"I've already taken a job."
"What?" she asks. "Where?"
But Jack doesn't say anything.
"Oh God, Jack." Her chest tightens. "You said-"
"I have to do this. Renee, I have to do this one."
They spend that night together. His fingers, and lips, leave marks on her body. They will last after he is gone, and then fade.