DISCLAIMER: Jack Bauer, Ryan Chappelle and the events on 24 do not belong to me. Obviously. They belong to FOX and the great minds which are bringing us this kick-ass season of 24. I bow down and worship you, for the way you all so expertly screw with my mind.

SPOILER WARNING: In case you somehow missed the synopsis, this has bigass spoilers for Episode 3x18, Day Three: 6:00am-7:00am, which aired in North America on 04/18/04. If you haven't seen the show, I'd recommend not reading this as it would so spoil the suspense of the ep.

A/N: Here's part two of what looks like a trilogy. Same scene as the last fic, but from Chappelle's point of view. The last part will be a surprise at this point, though I know what I'm going to do. Thanks for the corrections and the kind reviews, everyone, hopefully this part lives up to your expectations. Also, I was listening to one of the tracks from Brian Tyler's soundtrack to Children of Dune when I wrote this: "I Have Only Now". It's pretty much my soundtrack for this scene, and I highly recommend it.

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Six Fifty-Eight AM: Part 2.

by Karen S.

The only thing he can think at this moment is that he has to be dreaming.

Everything is telling him that this isn't a dream: Bauer's footsteps as he walks behind him, the jagged edges of the stones digging into his knees, the cold feeling that still lingers where he put Bauer's gun to his own temple, the tear slipping down his cheek. It's all far too real to be a dream; but there's still that little voice in his head, the one that won't give up, that refuses to believe this is actually happening. The voice telling him to knock Bauer down and run, for fuck's sake.

He's not sure he could run, even if he gave into the voice's urgings. As soon as he'd heard his death-knell--Edmunds' voice saying, "He's not here"--his knees had felt watery, and he'd been unsure if he'd even be able to get out of the chopper, or to stand when he did get out. The fact that he had to tell Bauer that should have rankled, he shouldn't have been able to say it, with his stubborn pride, but whatever would have previously refused help died inside him when he knew there was no more time left.

He's always disliked Jack. Jack's always been too much of a maverick for his taste. Most people in this line of business are, and he can handle that, but Jack tends to work so far off-piece that sometimes he has to wonder if Bauer sees himself as the only agent at CTU. He's even ordered Bauer killed a few times, but he's always had his reasons. For fuck's sake, Jack had broken a fucking drug lord and murderer out of prison a few hours ago, and only two other people had known it was a setup! What the hell was he supposed to have thought?

Of course he hadn't believed Jack when he'd come in and said Saunders wanted him dead, that the President of the fucking United States had authorized it. Who could have believed that? Who wouldn't have thought this was some sort of covert op, some big mind-fuck with Machiavellian motives, no matter how terrified he got in the process?

But now he really, really wishes that Bauer had just been using him as a pawn.

And Bauer hadn't been the cocksure rogue agent he usually was. Bauer had yelled at him when he needed it, been calm and comforting when he needed that too. Jack's hand had been steady and firm on his arm when he'd crawled out of the helicopter, trying to resist the urge to bolt, when he could no longer hide the desperate terror that had gripped him.

God, he doesn't want to die. No one ever does. At this moment that's the only thing going through his head, There must be some other way, God please, some way out of this, I just need more time...

There's no way he could have said goodbyes in the time given him; even with so few people to say goodbye to. He's never realized until this moment how much of his job is his life; not even when Victoria had said so, in their divorce papers. He's just gone on, going through each day, concentrating on work, doing everything else by routine, not even noticing the years going by, or the fact that he's still wearing his wedding band. The band is digging into his finger now as he clenches his fists to keep them from trembling, a reminder of someone he should call, but what the hell would he say? She'd never talk to him, she'd think it was some cheap trick. She'd hang up, before he got to say goodbye to her or the kids he hadn't seen in years, who hadn't made contact with him, and vice versa.

Who else would he say goodbye to? No real friends outside work, precious few at work. Most of his co-workers probably see him the same as Edmunds does, that prick who just has to come in and fuck everything up.

How the hell did it end up like this? Was it only forty-five minutes ago he'd been following that money trail, absorbed by the numbers, following the beauty of the logic which unrolled each step of the path leading back to Saunders? Is that why Sanders wants him dead? Because he's too close? Is he going to die for sitting behind a desk every day?

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to silence the voice telling him to run, the voice screaming in frantic desperation that this can not be all, that there has to be an escape somewhere, anywhere.

But if he runs, he'll never stop running. He'll never stop running, because the thing chasing him will be in his own head, in the thoughts that will torture him, that he's left millions die just to save his own worthless neck. The voice telling him to live for fuck's sake, the one that wouldn't let him pull the trigger, wouldn't let him send himself into whatever oblivion waited him by his own hand, will never be loud enough to drown out the voices of those he murdered.

He opens his eyes again, notices the sun is getting higher in the sky. In a couple minutes it will be shining on his face, but he knows he'll never feel his warmth. Was it this time yesterday morning that he was going into work, leaving dishes in the sink, dishes that will never be washed, driving his car which will never take him home again? Was it just twenty-four hours ago that he was cursing at the rush-hour traffic heading into the city, feeling the morning sun on his face, but not noticing it at all; like he hadn't noticed anything, any of the things he now wished he could feel, see, one last time?

Oh God, he doesn't want to die, but there's no way out, he's completely trapped, there's no more fucking time...

"God forgive me," he hears Jack say quietly behind him.

I don't know about God, Jack, but I forgive you, he thinks, I forg--