Author's Note: No, I haven't fell off the face of the earth! However, I have been really busy with school and band. Super thanks to Jade for the story edit even though she had a million other better things to do. You're the best! I really have no clue what I'm doing, but I hope that the remaining Jack and Renee fans like this story! This is technically two ficlets combined to make one story. Sorry it's filled with angst again. This story deals with Renee's depression and suicide attempt and a very small look at what might have happened if she had chose to answer Jack's calls. Constructive critism is always welcome and appreciated! If there are any grammer issues or things in my story that bother you, leave a comment! I'd love to know what you think and how I can improve my writing. Thanks for reading!

When she stepped in the shower, the contrails in between strands of hair could be seen before submerging herself into the faucet's downpour. The water could only wash away so much; dirt, blood, pebbles lodged into her skin, all trickled down to circle the drain. There was so much the warm water couldn't do for her. It couldn't bring back the career she'd thrown away hours prior, nor could it comfort Jack as he lay dying; she felt her sanity had disappeared somewhere with both. Larry. One of her greatest friends, now dead because of her incapability to do her job correctly. Gunshots, screams, the sound of metal cutting into skin, numbers and names, both foreign and domestic, all echoed in her head. Sharp pains that refused to be quieted any longer seized her body. Her neck and shoulders ached from where Jack had shot her earlier that morning. Had it only been one day ago? It felt like lifetimes ago when she had marched into the Senate Hearing to acquire Jack Bauer. She sunk to the wet ground and cried. When had she become so weak? She didn't know the answer.

"Make choices you can live with." His voice was so crisp, so clear, that she could have sworn he was standing right there, whispering into her ear. And that was the worst pain of all.

Five weeks later, she found herself sprawled out on her sofa, watching TV without watching it. Taking her eyes off the LCD screen and succumbing to the pain, she watched the self-induced blood drip from her wrist in a lightning-esque pattern, the words of her therapist replaying in her mind. "You'll be able to find a norm again". Ludicrous. It was the one and only session she bothered to show up to, and only did out of boredom. She hated the FBI, CTU, the government, and anything that bubbled up a feeling of nostalgia in her life.

The ring of her phone startled her, and she reached to tell whoever the hell was on the other side to fuck off when she remembered Jack had called last week. Renee stiffened, holding her breath and waiting for it to go to voicemail. She wanted nothing more than to answer, but looking down at her wrist, she knew she couldn't bring him here. Here, to the black hole she found herself in, the most pathetic excuse for a human she'd known. Jack was getting his life back together. He had a family. No, she wasn't going to answer.

The voicemails grew to a total of seven, all spaced out in times of her weakest moments. For weeks, it was what she lived for, just hearing the voice of someone who gave a shit about her. Alone. She looked down at her clothes, a dark gray ensemble she had purchased after burning the remainder of her business attire. The fire burned her eyes as the fabrics fluttered into ashes. She could still feel the warmth of it, the only warmth she had felt since Alan Wilson's blood ran down her skin, soaking into her. His cries echoed in her ears and she still didn't stop. His blood felt thick, wet and warm caked on her arms and neck. It was only seconds before the blow that would have killed him when he broke. Now she lay on her apartment floor following the three-hour workout that caused her to vomit what little food she'd managed to force down her throat. Her parents had died young and her only sibling rarely acknowledged her existence. She had handcuffed her only living friend, Janice, and made her watch as she tortured Wilson. Jack. She had lost track of the days, so she wasn't sure how much time had passed. Thoughts of Jack and his voicemails almost made some sort of feeling bubble to the surface, but she fought it. She took the pocket knife inches from her legs and jabbed it vertically into her left wrist, slowly working down in a jagged motion. She became dizzy and closed her eyes, smirking at the thought of not seeing tomorrow.

Calling him back had been the best decision of her life. Maybe he held the key to getting the visions and nightmares to go away. She felt fifteen again: excitement, nervousness, fear, and happiness all boiled up in one over a guy. But Jack was so much more than a guy. When she looked in the mirror and a sleep-deprived, disheveled, hellish monster stared back at her, she shuddered. There was no turning back now, so she slapped some makeup on her face after taking a quick shower. (Not that Jack expected her to look great anyway. He "had been there too" as he mentioned before Renee could change her mind.) She prayed he would not bring up her suicide attempt; she wasn't too far from trying again in the first place. God, what was she doing? She inhaled the stuffy air and stepped out of her apartment door.

Jack was already waiting, black coffee in hand, when she walked in. First glance and he could already tell how bad it was. She had gotten skinnier, less muscle than he remembered. Beyond the relief of seeing him, he also saw a dark emptiness in her eyes, making her smile much less convincing. She looked sick, although he could see her half-assed attempt at covering it up. Her clothes had an edge to them, dark jeans with a black leather jacket (useful in concealing the cuts on her wrist, he assumed) and a small 3-inch heel. A much darker color of hair rested on her shoulders; it still had a red tint to it, but looked almost black in the cafe's lighting. Jack struggled to his feet to greet her. She hugged him, careful not to squeeze too tightly, wary of the extent of which the toxin had ravaged his body.

"You look good," she said, surprising herself with the strength in her own voice. For a man who was on his deathbed less than a year ago, she meant it. She could see he was still struggling, but he was able to make it here. Suddenly, she felt like an ass, knowing that she should have gone to see him. After all, he was the one in the hospital. "How...How are you?" she asked, her voice cracking this time.

"I'm...getting better. The treatment's been working. It's just a long recovery." God, she loved his lack of bullshit. She wasn't sure how much more of it she could take. "Wanna sit down?" He gestured to the seat closest to her. She nodded and sat.

"It's really good to see you." Alive, she thought, but she didn't say it aloud.

"You, too. . . " Jack replied, six beats of silence following before he spoke again. "Do you want something to eat or drink? This is one of my favorite places to get coffee. The food's really good, too. Especially since I don't cook."

Another smile that didn't reach her eyes. "No, thanks. I'm okay."

"Try eating pasta," he suggested.

"What?"

He put his hand over hers. "When I got back from China, I couldn't eat or sleep for months. I was able to digest pasta. I bet they have some bagels here that you might be able to stomach."

He was revealing her layers, pulling them back like an onion. All the anger she had been holding, and one sentence from him could bring all of it to the surface. Tears formed in her eyes as she spoke. "I'd like that." She knew he could help her, she just had to allow him to.