Where the Wild Things Are
Prologue: Smoke and Mirrors

When Ryan came to, his vision was clouded and he felt overwhelmingly drunk. There was a distant echo of a voice attempting to speak to him. He recognized the sound, but the words were nonsensical.

"Ryan?" The voice was muffled, distant almost like an echo trilling from some far-off place. He strained to grasp hold of it with every thread of consciousness he had left. His dreams began to fade, quickly slipping away from him. They hadn't been pleasant, only leaving behind a bone-chilling sense of fear that was evaporating now, becoming as intangible as a wisp of smoke. Even though he couldn't remember, he was aware of the dread that had twisted his insides for a moment before also dissipating, replaced by a warm tingling sensation coursing through his body.

As he relaxed, his lips released a small sigh. He paid no mind to the background noise that swirled around him. He was simply too tired, so he hardly noticed as an oxygen mask was placed over his face.

"Why hasn't it worn off by now?" Asked Jack, with a furrowed brow.

"You gave him enough sedative to snow him into next week." Dr. Nathan Carter, shook his head. "His oxygen is a little low, but he's quite comfortable."

Jack glanced at Chappelle the harsh frown lines he usually wore had been smoothed by sleep. It had been thirty-six hours since he had dragged the man's body into the medical bay of the CIA's Clandestine Services Division. His once neatly tailored suit had been removed and replaced with a t-shirt and some sweatpants. The out-of-place sight made him appear even more off-kilter. He should have been at CTU, busily arguing with Bauer over his inability to follow orders. Their typical push-and-pull dynamics chewing Bauer out over his inability to follow the rules. It was a comfortable game they had settled into over the years. The constant tug of war with Chappelle over protocol made it easy for Jack to dislike Ryan. Bauer was a loaded gun and it was Chappelle's job to rein him in and put up road blocks every chance he got.

Since the virus, something in that relationship had shifted. His want to keep the start date of Jack's 'addiction' off the record. To bend the rules. A human movement that Jack never thought he would see from Chappelle of all people. He was breaking through the construct of the character that Jack had made him be, that Jack himself was. Putting the man on his knees and handing him a gun had been too much. The simple admission that his legs were shaking as he walked him to that death kneel. He had seen a raw emotion in Ryan then that in his sixteen years of working with the man had never come to light. It shook him to his very core.

He didn't tell Ryan that there wasn't a bullet in the chamber. He had shot him with a red paintball laced with a proprietary, highly potent, neurotoxin to knock him out quickly. If he had played his cards right Ryan would have been unconscious before he hit the ground.

"He was a bit shocky first when you brought him in." Carter explained, interrupting his train of thought. "But super fluid responsive. Had em' on a levophed infusion for a couple of hours and was able to ween it quickly." He shoved the EKG he was looking at into the chart at the foot of the bed. "He just needs to sleep it off."

Carter was studying him hard. "Perhaps you should follow his lead. When was the last time you slept."

Jack swallowed, considering the question. "Thursday?"

Bristow wondered at what point he had started referring to himself as "Jack." Maybe Carter was right and the lack of sleep was getting to him.

"It's Monday, Jim." Carter grabbed him by the elbow, recoiling as the man flinched. He had always been touchy, but this was over the top. "Look, Chappelle's gonna be fine. I found an estranged daughter in Seattle who's willing to take him. We'll watch him for another little bit and then he'll wake up down there with her and be none the wiser. Big happy family reunion"

Bristow quirked an eyebrow, his gaze drifting back to Chappelle. He wasn't supposed to be here, in Vancouver, breaching the part of his life that Jack had kept a secret.

Carter shrugged. "I'm just saying, I get it. You've been working this cover for sixteen years. You can't not get attached to these people."

"You my shrink now Nate?"

"They'd have to pay me a hell of a lot more for that," he deadpanned. "But I am responsible for making sure you don't burn yourself out and there's no way in hell I'm clearing you for active duty in that condition. Hell, I'm not even clearing you to drive home."

Bristow glared at him.

"It's alright Nate, I'll take him."

The door swung open, letting in a soft glow from the hallway as Laura Macey stepped into the sterile room. Despite the chaos of the day, she carried an air of calm with her, along with a slight amusement at seeing Jack half asleep on his feet.

"Took you long enough," Jack grinned at her entrance, exhaustion hanging heavily on his usual sharp wit. She quirked an eyebrow at his dry response but marched forward, extending a hand towards his.

"Come on," she urged, a smirk playing on her lips, "We havn't been home in ages. I forgot what our bed looks."

Having not been there in months, the thought of a peaceful night in their own bed was both dreadfully foreign and comfortingly enticing.

Eying Jack's slumped form, Laura couldn't help but tease him, a familiar twinkle dancing in her deep brown eyes. "Looks like you're not too far from sleepwalking, Jim," she remarked

"Mace," Jack sighed, taking in the green sweater and jeans she had changed into. His fingers absently drifted to the spot on her chest where he had shot her.

"CTU…" Jack whispered, the name muttered like an incantation to bring forth the phantoms of their past. His hand shooting out in a trained reflex, the trigger pulled, Laura, under the Nina Myers guise, falling… The ordeal, though staged, had forever branded him with guilt.

Laura, contrary to his guilt-ridden demeanour, broke into soft laughter, her eyes twinkling. " You really committed to the performance, Jim. Nearly gave me a heart attack, even with the bulletproof vest," she quipped.

His lips twitched into a half smile, his heavy eyes refusing to meet hers. He knew it was a ruse, a performance for the world. But sleep deprivation teamed up with high-strung nerves, tearing logic apart, pushing him into emotional overdrive. His fingers unconsciously slipped over the phantom trigger, the ghost of a bullet piercing through the silence.

In the face of his burgeoning regret, Laura wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer into a hug. He could smell the soap on her freshly showered skin. Her whispered words mixed with the rhythmic rustle of her breath grazed his ears, "Jim, it was a cover. All of it. Nina, CTU, the shooting. You know this. It's ok. You just need sleep."

Her voice was gentle, clear as the breaking dawn, suffused with absolute certainty. Her reassurance, even in the face of his irrational guilt, was like a lighthouse guiding him through his emotional storm.

"Remember?" She pulled back, resting her forehead against his, meeting his gaze with a soft tenderness that reminded him of stolen moments of their shared years. "It's always been us."

Laura chuckled at his somber recollection, her amusement unexpected but infectious. "Your melodramatic gasp was the highlight for me, babe," she teased lightly, playfully slapping his arm.

"Well excuse me for being concerned about my wife," Bristow grumbled, indignant.

Carter cleared his throat. The playful banter managed to scrape off the somber edge from the room for a breath or two, making Jack blink at the doctor. Carter raised his eyebrows in emphasis, "Your choices are simple, Bristow: Laura's embrace or a comfy hospital cot next to Chappelle."

"Chappelle was never a cuddler," Macey interjected, her laughter washing over Jack like a soothing, warm tide.

Shaking his head at her perfectly-timed humor, Carter leaned against the doorway, decently mirroring Jack's weary demeanour. "Chappelle's gonna be alright Jim. "I'll keep an eye on him and make sure we get him down to his daughter in Seattle. Ryan will wake up none the wiser to the day's events."

Trapped in the grogginess following his deep sedation, Chappelle's eyes fluttered open. He listened, pulling broken pieces of conversation from the air. He registered Carter calling someone 'Jim' and 'Jack', also something about the need for rest, blurring the lines of reality.

His eyes shifted, locking onto the figure Carter had referred to. His mind foggy, he squinted at the man. There was something familiar about the tired posture, something he'd seen in numerous tense CTU briefings.

"Jack...?" he mumbled quietly, more of a silent question than an acknowledgment. But the effort of comprehension was too taxing, and any recollection that was trying to surface, drowned back into the murkiness of his sedated state.

As Carter's and Bristow's voices echoed through the room, Chappelle hovered on the edge of an uneasy consciousness. Something familiar tickled in his blurry senses. A voice. He turned his head slightly and heard it again – Bristow. Or was it Jack? The name seemed familiar, the voice even more so.

He tried to open his eyes, to get a better sense of his surroundings. He managed to lift his eyelids just enough to see two figures standing by his bedside. A flash of recognition sparked in his mind – That's Jack Bauer and Nina Myers? No, Jack killed Nina? He remembered that. He remembered reeming Jack out for that. He stood in front of the security camera to obscure the footage. As his brain struggled to separate reality from the sedative-induced haze, he heard snatches of their conversation. "...need to step back...", "...didn't have a choice, Jack...", "...you've done the best you could..."

"I've done the best…" The words stirred something, a memory, or was it a dream? Chappelle couldn't be sure. The voices faded again as sleep pulled him back into its warm, comforting embrace. He faded back into the depths of unconsciousness, a flicker of recognition sparking in his fading consciousness - Jack...Bristow. Be it a dream or reality, it was the last thought that crossed his mind as the darkness pulled him under once more.

Reluctantly allowing Macey to guide him out of the room, he took one last glance at ...James...Bristow gave Chappelle a final glance before complying with Carter's suggestion, the realization of being recognized dawning on him as he stepped out into the hallway. His secret was safe...for now.


Dr. Nathan Carter cut an imposing figure against the twilight, his tall stature appearing even larger with the unconscious man slumped against him. In the waning light, Carter could see the silhouette of a woman waiting on the open door. Her face was pulled in a tight mask of concern as she watched the two men approach.

The vehicle that had transported them from Vancouver was obscured by the dark. It drove away, leaving no trace of its existence.

Caitlin Winters née Chappelle watched from the doorway of her Seattle home, her features etched with concern as she saw the unconscious form of her father being carried in by Nate's looming form. It had been eight years since they'd last seen each other, the gap seemingly an abyss in their strained relationship.

Once upon a time, her father had been a solid, assured presence in their lives. Their own superhero, sweeping in through the front door at the end of the day, his infectious laughter filling their home, lighting up her mother's face, and transforming homework-filled evenings into impromptu family game nights. He was the stubborn cheerleader at her school football matches, the patient tutor during late-night chemistry cramming sessions, her protector against lurking monsters in the dark, and the foundation of their secure, idyllic family.

But her mom's diagnosis had ground their lives to a cruel halt, slicing through their tender family canvas with a ruthless hand. Caitlin had watched her vibrant, full-of-life parents grappling with an unknown demon, their strong partnership waning in the long drawn-out nights in the sterile, cold hospital rooms. Through muffled sobs, hushed conversations and long, silent car rides, the inevitability of the prognosis eventually set in. Her heart had torn apart with each teardrop that traced their weary faces.

With her Mom's passing, Ryan Chappelle chose work as his escape, burying himself in the responsibilities of Counter Terrorism. New assignments and high-profile cases became his refuge. The vibrance of their home flickered and dimmed, replaced by a cold, unfeeling void.

"I'm sorry Dad, but I can't wait any longer," Caitlin had spoken finally one afternoon at the doorstep, her bag slung across her shoulder, "I need to start my own life." The once-resonant echo of family laughter had been replaced by chilling silence, reciprocated merely by her father's stony facade. Ryan's gaze hadn't wavered, his eyes devoid of emotion, his stiff nod a tacit sanction for her decision. She moved to Seattle for college, building herself a life away from the prison of hurt and resentment she had left behind.

The phone call from Dr. Nathan Carter was unexpected, a stark splash of reality they were grappling to comprehend. "We have your father. He's hurt. Can you take him?" echoed in her mind, a siren spiralling her thoughts into a dizzying whirlwind.

"Why me? I am not the only one," Caitlin seethed, remembering Carter's call, her question lingering unanswered in the drab room, creating an invisible rift between herself and her slumbered father. For years she'd yearned for his call, a sign to prove he cared. But receiving it in these circumstances with such staggering revelations was like a twisted cosmic joke.

"He's going to be fine," Carter reassured her. "He just needs rest."

Inside, Caitlin's husband, Dr. Liam Winters, was waiting, brushing off a thick layer of dust from the old sheets of their guest room. He was dressed in a casual sweatshirt and jeans.

With Liam's help, they settled Ryan into the bed. His body, still taut from the drug-induced paralysis, slowly sinking into the comfort of soft pillows and warm bedding. Caitlin stood back, lingering at the doorway, her gaze fixated on the unconscious man that was her father. She felt numb with the lack of answers, or maybe the gravity of the questions overwhelmed her. Whatever the emotion was, it was suffocating. She sank into the chair by the bed, the edges of her vision blurring with unshed tears, her grip on Liam's hand tightening in a silent plea for strength.

"He'll be okay," Carter repeated, adjusting the pillows under Chappelle's head. "The drugs will wear off in a few hours."

Liam nodded. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Carter slapped the man lightly on the shoulder, sharing a mutual understanding. Caitlin stepped in at that point, her determined eyes meeting Carter's.

"I want answers, Doctor."

All color drained from Carter's face. "I understand. You have every right to them. But I'm afraid it's not as straightforward as I'd like it to be. Your father... your father had a secret life. One I also happen to be a part of…albeit briefly" he hesitated. "I'm sorry I can't tell you much. To be honest with you, he's not going to remember much either. For now, Chappelle is recovering from exposure to a potent sedative while on a case.."

"A few hours…" Carter repeated, his gaze flicking over Chappelle's peaceful face, "He might wake up confused and disoriented. Just keep him calm and comfortable. It'll just be like a bad hangover."

"And what about you, Carter? Where do you fit into all this?" Caitlin asked, her voice strong and determined. Her tone was reminiscent of her father when chewing out an unruly field agent.

Carter looked her square in the eye, his tone was calm and cool. "I wish I could give you more details, but it's not safe. Not for you, not for Chappelle." He paused, glancing at Liam."I expect you'll good care of him, Dr. Winters."

Carter turned not giving Liam a chance to respond. Giving Liam a nod, he left, heading back into the night. Questions pulsed in the air, hanging unspoken in the small room, but Carter knew the necessity of silence. Now, they just had to wait.

In the stillness of the guest room, the quiet rustling of sheets punctuated the silence as Caitlin paced, her gaze latching on to the peaceful form of her father, who was more comfortable in a professionally tailored suit than the softness of the sweatpants he was currently wearing. The sporadic rise and fall of his chest under the soft glow of the bedside lamp gave her an eerie comfort, a reminder of his existence that she'd been robbed of for years.

"Why now, Liam?" Her voice broke the silence, brimming with a mixture of harsh bitterness and hopeful disbelief. "After all these years, why has he come back now?"

Liam watched his wife, the anxiety in her gaze softened by the dim light.. He shrugged, a nonchalant tilt of his shoulder that didn't quite mask the worry etched deep in his eyes. "I don't know, Cait. But he's your dad. Maybe his priorities have changed."

The house was quiet save for the soft hum of the air exchanger as it fluttered the thin curtains hanging by the guest room window. The room, washed in the soft glow of the moonlight seeping through the shutters, was bathed in an almost ethereal calm.

Caitlin stood by the bed, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress, her gaze intent on her father's sleeping form. In the dim white light, his familiar features told stories of the many years they had missed in each other's lives. His hair, what was left of it, was greyer, lines of age, stress, and perhaps unspoken fear, etched across his forehead and around his mouth. The intervening years, she realized, hadn't been kind to him.

Next to her, Liam watched, his eyes filled with concern.. His analytical gaze watched Chappelle, noting his slow breathing, the pallor of his skin and the slight fluttering of his eyelids as the drugs slowly wore off.

"There's something about him…" Caitlin almost whispered, her voice slightly hoarse. "Look at his hand, Liam."

Following her gaze, Liam quickly turned his attention towards Ryan's left hand. The flashing glint of a gold band around his ring finger stood out starkly against his pale skin. It was dull and scratched, but held a certain warmth — a relic from a past life.

"He still wears his wedding band," Caitlin murmured, her voice tinged with regret. Her fingertips lightly grazed the cold metal, the soft sound filling the room with a mournful echo. It was a stark reminder of the man her father had been – a family man who had loved and lost, only to wind up here, buried beneath the weight of a past life.

"Eight years…Mom's has been gone eight years and he still wears it." Caitlin pulled her chair over to sit by the bed, the squeaking noise of its wooden legs against the floor seeming intrusive in the quiet room.

Liam squeezed her hand, a silent vow of support, and let her be. Silently, he moved to blend into the shadows, ready to provide comfort whilst respecting the private moment unfolding before him.

Caitlin stared at the ring, the metal reflecting the pale light. The questions jostled in her mind, trying to form some coherence that earlier conversations with Carter had shattered. Her mother's death, her father's subsequent drowning in work, his disappearance from their lives – none of it led here. The ring, a painful symbol of happier times, still adorning his finger presented a mystery far more complex than she had ever fathomed.

"I wonder if Christine or Ryan even know that he still wears it," she mused out loud. Her fingers hovering over the band, not quite touching – a chasm of eight years not so easily overcome.

"Is this why he distanced himself from us...all three of us?" Tears welled up in her eyes – her father, seemingly lost, probably hurt, and they had been oblivious to his suffering. "Was the grief too much for him?"

Caitlin and Liam sat beside him, their hands clasped in a knot of apprehension and anticipation. Their gazes met and held, unspoken words passing between them.

"We need to tell Emily," Caitlin started, her voice brittle. Liam's eyes softened. He lifted their entwined hands, pressing a soothing kiss on her knuckles.

Her eyes flashed with a cocktail of emotions - fear, anticipation, remorse - but there was determination too, and even a hint of relief. He hated that he couldn't take away the burden of her conflicted feelings.

His throat worked around a swallow. "We will, love." With her father lying unconscious not three feet away from them, it already felt incredibly real – and incredibly complicated. "It's going to be alright. Emily is a brave little girl."

Caitlin gave a tired smile. She had known this day would come, yet the suddenness of it all was a jolt that echoed through her. Ryan Chappelle was back in her life – and his absence left a void that had not been easy to fill.

"I know, Liam," she sighed, her gaze graveyard-silent as it wandered back to her father, "I just don't know where to start."

The air in the room grew heavier with every passing second, with every languid rise and fall of Ryan's chest. Caitlin closed her eyes, pressing against Liam, seeking comfort in his warmth amidst the cold reality they were grappling with.

"Tomorrow…." she began, locking her gaze with his, "Tomorrow we'll sit her down, tell her we have a surprise for her, that she has a grandpa."

Liam watched her steady conviction, admiring her strength. He cupped her face, his thumb drawn to the worried line at her brow. "She's going to be alright, Caitlin. We all are. One day at a time, remember?"

With that reassurance, the haze hanging over them felt less ominous. They both sighed in unison. Tonight had been an unexpected whirlwind, but as long as they had each other, they could face it.

Lost in their cocoon of shared warmth, a moment of silence slipped between them until Liam's voice filled the quiet space. "Cait..." he began, a slight hesitation in his voice making her look at him, "I… never asked him, you know…"

"Asked... who? What?" Caitlin was puzzled until realization hit her. "Oh…" was all she managed.

As Liam revealed his secret discomfort, Caitlin's heart instinctively ached to reach out and soothe his anxiety. Instead, she gave his hand a short squeeze, her gaze fluttering back to her father.

"Li, you married me - not my father. You've been etching away your guilt for too long," she said with feeling. "All these years, you've thought you've done something wrong - but Liam - you were there when he decided not to be."

Though Liam recognized the truth in her words, guilt still hung heavily in his heart. "I still feel that I should have tried to reach out, to try and bring him back, for you, for Christine, for Ryan, and maybe even for little Emily here."

His voice faded into the room; his confession, more a whisper to himself than to Caitlin. He looked down at their intertwined hands, exhaling deeply.

Caitlin seemed to be contemplating his words. After a moment, she turned to him, her gaze softening with tenderness. "We started a life together, Liam. Despite everything, we created our own family. He's here, now. Let's…" she hesitated, "Let's include him, help him heal, together. And when we think Emily's ready, we tell her. We introduce her to her grandpa… to her family."

Their eyes met, finding strength in each other's gaze, sharing a silent understanding that whatever the next day would bring, they were ready to face it.

"I just hope it's not too late," she confessed quietly.

Liam's gaze softened, "For Emily or for him?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both," Caitlin admitted, "I want Emily to know her grandfather. But I also want him to know Emily — and what it's like to be a part of a family again."

Liam nodded, understanding her fears. "Every moment is an opportunity, Cait. He's here now. That's what matters."

AN: Just something I have been working on for a while. Please let me know what you think and I will post more.