A/N: Don't own 24.
He hated Christmas. Hated it. Ever since that last Christmas he hadn't spent with Teri. The lights, the music, the feeling that everyone else was getting together with their families, even if they weren't. Even if the reality of other people's families was Uncle Ted getting drunk again, and Mom fighting with Dad's new wife. Everyone was supposed to look like a Norman Rockwell painting. He just couldn't do it. Not any more. Not even for Kim. Thank god she wasn't very into it now either.
It made him jumpy.
He hated feeling jumpy.
This would be the third one without her. The grief councillor Chappelle had made him go to (after Tony caught him asleep at his desk with a gun in his hand) -- she had said something about the first milestones after the death of a loved one being the worst. The first birthday, the first Valentine's Day, the first wedding anniversary, the first Christmas, each one would reveal some new way to miss her.
Bullshit.
Saying the first ones were the worst implied that they would get easier, and they weren't. They weren't getting any easier.
And this year he had Kate to contend with. She was so… happy. Oh, he knew it was difficult for her, too. Marie was still behind bars, and her dad was still a mess. But she was putting on a brave front, and Jack knew that part of that was possible because she was relying on him for strength. She had no idea how weak he was, sometimes.
No idea.
Jack gave a short, bitter, half-laugh and flicked his lighter open, holding it under the spoon. He had some vials from a child's chemistry set lined up, ready to take the doses he was cooking up. He was so weak, he was planning ahead. It would be harder to get away over the holidays, there was more risk of getting caught.
The last vial sealed, Jack checked his watch. She wouldn't be home for a couple more hours. She'd made a last trip to the mall to pick up a few more things for dinner. A few trimmings to make the odd collection of waifs and strays gathered around their dining room table look like a family from the paintings, at least from the outside.
He started to tidy up, throwing out the stained cotton and tucking the vials neatly into a little case he'd found in a head shop in the valley. It appealed to his military sense of order. The junkie's equivalent of polished boots or a bed made so neatly you could bounce a quarter off of it.
Not that he was a junkie.
He wasn't and he never would be. He was just building up his tolerance as part of his cover. It was no different from any of the other things he'd done to establish an alternative identity. It had nothing to do with who he really was, and as soon as he was done with the Salazars, he'd be done with this.
Jack reached for the last vial. It felt so light in his hand. A few drops of dark liquid. If he spilled it, it would make a stain hardly bigger than the ring under a cup of coffee. How could something that was itself nothing to hold, hold so much within itself? He checked his watch again, calculating. He had time. By the time everyone got here, he'd be tired, that's all. And the edge would be gone, washed away by those few little drops sailing on his bloodstream.
