Inspired by "Try" by Nelly Furtado
"And I have lived so many lives
Though I'm not old..
All of the moments that already passed
We'll try to go back and make them last
All of the things we want each other to be
We never will be"
Jack sat down in his cold, dark office. Away from the noise of all of his coworkers, who were dilligently working on finding Stephen Saunders, blissfully ignorant of what had just happened. He glanced at his watch; it was 7:04 AM. Six minutes ago he had killed his boss, Ryan Chappelle, on orders from the President. Jack had killed a lot of people in his lifetime, and was, to an extent, sort of disillusioned to it. The final gasping breath, the occasion death spasm, and, often, the blood. It was all second nature to him now, something he paid no real attention to anymore. It was sort of like elevator music; he knew it was there but didn't pay attention to it.
But killing Ryan had been different. He'd felt pain, anguish, empathy for another human. Normally, Jack felt no affinity for anyone except for Kim. Today, that changed.
Even though Chappelle was a hardass, and at times Jack could imagine choking him or clocking him over the head with a table lamp, he'd seemed like the kind of person who would live forever. Chappelle had been like a cockroach, he could've survived a nuclear attack. But now he was gone. One bullet to the back of the skull. One bullet, that came from Jack's gun.
If he could've done another "bang bang you're dead" it would've been fine. No pain, no emotion. Jack would've been disconnected as always, only pausing for a brief minute to look at the body before walking away.
But Ryan had affect on Jack. From when he said his legs were shaking, to the admission that he knew but hadn't accepted that he had no one who cared about him, to the single tear running down his face when he pleaded with Jack to let him take his own life. Jack didn't want Chappelle dead more than anyone else did (except for Saunders, of course) but he couldn't go against an order from the President of the United States.
Well, Jack had his own reasons for not wanting Chappelle dead. Up until the bullet pierced Chappelle's skin, Jack hadn't wanted to admit that he loved him. It was a scary realization, to discover a person you'd secretly loved had just been killed by your own hand. Add to that the fact that Jack hadn't actually been in love with anybody since Nina, and even that was a fleeting emotion, one that went as quickly as it came.
If Jack could just see Chappelle one more time, alive, he'd tell him someone cared about him. That he wasn't alone in the world. He'd push him against the wall and kiss his lips and his neck and carress him. He'd let the supressed feelings spill out of him like water, let them cause mudslides and drown cities. He'd make sure Chappelle knew he was loved by at least one person...
Jack looked at his watch again -- 7:14 -- and leaned back in the chair.
'Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I need another hit. Does withdrawl cause ominous feelings that you can't do anything about? I loved Chappelle. Oh my fucking god. I loved Chappelle. I loved him and now he's gone because of me and there's nothing I can do... ohmygod...'
There was a knock on the door. Jack took a deep breath and whirled around, as though he'd been caught doing something he hadn't been supposed to.
"C'mon in..."
Tony opened the door, and peered in.
"Jack, I know you just... had to do something... rough, but you need to get back out there."
'Of course I do. Of course of course of course. I can't be sitting here stewing in my feelings when there's a terrorist on the loose...' Jack brushed off his pants and Kevlar vest and started towards the door. His cheeks were burning and eyes were watering and was convinced that Tony was looking at him funny or could read minds or Jack had written "I love Chappelle" on his forehead while lost in his reverie. So he filled the silence.
"Um... uh... so, Tony... any word on Saunders yet?"
The door clicked shut behind them.
"And I have lived so many lives
Though I'm not old..
All of the moments that already passed
We'll try to go back and make them last
All of the things we want each other to be
We never will be"
Jack sat down in his cold, dark office. Away from the noise of all of his coworkers, who were dilligently working on finding Stephen Saunders, blissfully ignorant of what had just happened. He glanced at his watch; it was 7:04 AM. Six minutes ago he had killed his boss, Ryan Chappelle, on orders from the President. Jack had killed a lot of people in his lifetime, and was, to an extent, sort of disillusioned to it. The final gasping breath, the occasion death spasm, and, often, the blood. It was all second nature to him now, something he paid no real attention to anymore. It was sort of like elevator music; he knew it was there but didn't pay attention to it.
But killing Ryan had been different. He'd felt pain, anguish, empathy for another human. Normally, Jack felt no affinity for anyone except for Kim. Today, that changed.
Even though Chappelle was a hardass, and at times Jack could imagine choking him or clocking him over the head with a table lamp, he'd seemed like the kind of person who would live forever. Chappelle had been like a cockroach, he could've survived a nuclear attack. But now he was gone. One bullet to the back of the skull. One bullet, that came from Jack's gun.
If he could've done another "bang bang you're dead" it would've been fine. No pain, no emotion. Jack would've been disconnected as always, only pausing for a brief minute to look at the body before walking away.
But Ryan had affect on Jack. From when he said his legs were shaking, to the admission that he knew but hadn't accepted that he had no one who cared about him, to the single tear running down his face when he pleaded with Jack to let him take his own life. Jack didn't want Chappelle dead more than anyone else did (except for Saunders, of course) but he couldn't go against an order from the President of the United States.
Well, Jack had his own reasons for not wanting Chappelle dead. Up until the bullet pierced Chappelle's skin, Jack hadn't wanted to admit that he loved him. It was a scary realization, to discover a person you'd secretly loved had just been killed by your own hand. Add to that the fact that Jack hadn't actually been in love with anybody since Nina, and even that was a fleeting emotion, one that went as quickly as it came.
If Jack could just see Chappelle one more time, alive, he'd tell him someone cared about him. That he wasn't alone in the world. He'd push him against the wall and kiss his lips and his neck and carress him. He'd let the supressed feelings spill out of him like water, let them cause mudslides and drown cities. He'd make sure Chappelle knew he was loved by at least one person...
Jack looked at his watch again -- 7:14 -- and leaned back in the chair.
'Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I need another hit. Does withdrawl cause ominous feelings that you can't do anything about? I loved Chappelle. Oh my fucking god. I loved Chappelle. I loved him and now he's gone because of me and there's nothing I can do... ohmygod...'
There was a knock on the door. Jack took a deep breath and whirled around, as though he'd been caught doing something he hadn't been supposed to.
"C'mon in..."
Tony opened the door, and peered in.
"Jack, I know you just... had to do something... rough, but you need to get back out there."
'Of course I do. Of course of course of course. I can't be sitting here stewing in my feelings when there's a terrorist on the loose...' Jack brushed off his pants and Kevlar vest and started towards the door. His cheeks were burning and eyes were watering and was convinced that Tony was looking at him funny or could read minds or Jack had written "I love Chappelle" on his forehead while lost in his reverie. So he filled the silence.
"Um... uh... so, Tony... any word on Saunders yet?"
The door clicked shut behind them.