Author's note: since so much is currently going on in the J/A corner, I'm really excited! Thanks to everyone who still writes J/A stories!

Credits to: National Institute of Drug Abuse and US Department of Veterans Affairs

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Day 14

Audrey stared at her computer and she didn't really notice that one of her colleagues had come into her office. Janice Bukovsky, the one who'd been with her on that trip to L.A., two weeks ago and who still hadn't asked any question about why she hadn't attended the game with the rest of their team that evening.
Audrey was too drowned in reading to notice her. A subconscious part of her also evaded Janice. They had almost become friends, early on, but ever since her father was now Secretary of Defense and suddenly their boss, Janice had withdrawn completely, acting more distant than ever.

Audrey didn't even realize how she snuck up on her, leant over her shoulder and gazed at her screen.

"What are you reading?", she asked.

Audrey almost shrieked and turned around. "Nothing.", she stammered. "Nothing important.", she added. She felt caught, as if she'd been on some dirty webpage.

Janice bent over and read aloud from her screen: "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in Veterans. New project?"

Should she say no, the truth? And have no answer why she'd been reading it? Or should she say yes and lie about some new project that Janice would again feel left out from? She hurriedly had to come up with some good answer.

"No, nothing new.", she sighed, "I just had a little talk with Dr. Stevenson from the Veterans Affairs Liaison Office. Needed a little follow-up cause I actually had no idea about this." Audrey made a note to herself, to contact Dr. Cassandra Stevenson today, and talk to her about something – anything, so that her lie wouldn't come up if Janice talked to Dr. Stevenson in the cafeteria and mentioned this.

Audrey watched Janice closely, as she read a few lines of the journal article on her screen aloud.

"PTSD is slightly more common among Veterans than civilians. The number of Veterans with PTSD varies by service era. Desert Storm, probability of PTSD at one point in life 21%. More than one in ten veterans have been diagnosed with a substance use disorder, indicating that veterans often experience traumatic events that trigger drug or alcohol use." She let out a breath and straightened up again. "Shocking. Do you wanna join us for lunch? We're heading down to the cafeteria."

Audrey shook her head, no. "No, I've got some things here that I must finish." She prayed that Dr. Stevenson wouldn't be at the cafeteria as well and that Janice wouldn't meet her and reference to a conversation that had never happened.

They left.

Audrey stayed back and when she saw she was alone in that big office now, she returned to the journal article, glad that nobody would look over her shoulder in the next half hour.

She'd been reading about this for hours now. Yesterday, after Jack had hung up, she hadn't been able to get their conversation out of her brain. Can you imagine how it feels to kill an innocent man? I dug a grave for someone whose name I didn't know. I guess I raped a woman. That's what's bothering him. She'd heard of PTSD symptoms before, but she'd never been that much interested. PTSD was a thing the Veterans Affairs Liaison Office dealt with, a little executive department that had been founded five years ago, when a dedicated budget option had come up that nobody had wanted to hand over to the actual Department of Veterans Affairs over in Vermont Avenue. They were five people, three secretaries, a lawyer and a trained psychiatrist, Dr. Stevenson, who worked one floor below, but actually nobody really knew what they were doing all day. Rolling out some support programmes maybe. Would have been cheaper to hand that budget money to some NGO to do street work instead of funding five offices in here with the money that should be spent on Veterans.

Audrey shook the budget considerations out of her mind and continued reading.

Deployment is associated with smoking initiation, unhealthy drinking, drug use and risky behaviors. … Half of military personnel have reported that they believe seeking help for mental health issues would negatively affect their military career. … Rates of binge drinking are high compared to the general population. … Once active duty personnel leave the military some protective influences are gone, and substance use and other mental health issues become of greater concern. … Among recent Afghanistan and Iraq veterans, 63% diagnosed with SUDs also met criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

The pages of the Department of Veterans Affairs were an endless resource. She read about understanding PTSD, treatment options and the effects on family and friends, until the rest of the team came back from lunch.
She hurriedly closed the browser window and acted like she was drowned in some actual work.

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Jack lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He'd been awake for a few hours now, but he'd refused to get out of bed. Too early. The first time he'd woken up had been around 6 a.m. in the morning, soaked in sweat.
Some bad dream. Thank God, it was gone in the moment his eyes opened up. Going back to sleep was easy because he'd been awake half of the night, thinking about…. He didn't even want to admit to himself what he was thinking about. Nina. She'd been on his mind more often than he'd ever admit to anyone. There had been a time when he'd almost forgotten about her. But lately, everything had come back, though she was dead.
This time he'd made sure that she wouldn't return.

She would have had a lot of useful information.

Bullshit. This one time, he refused to make a decision for the greater good. These two bullets were for him, and for him only. He had stepped back often enough, had put his needs and his wishes behind the law, the greater good, the sake of the many or whatever it was.

It had been point blank murder, no self-defense. The people from CTU didn't ask too many questions. Did they even know they were backing him for murder? Probably. Maybe they'd done it for the greater good: keeping the team together, in the middle of the crisis.

Jack starred at the ceiling and wondered if they'd ever start asking these questions.
He wasn't even sure what he'd answer. Lie? Reaffirm that it had been self-defense, when it clearly wasn't – against an unarmed woman who lay on the floor? He didn't feel like lying. Maybe he just tell them the truth, if they asked. Yes, he'd taken revenge for Teri. For the deceit. For all the times she'd made him believe she was a true friend and there for him.

He finally jumped out of bed. Maybe that would stop the thoughts.
The room was much too small for that. He'd paced up and down these few yards so many times that he could do it blind by now. After a few minutes he stood at the windows and looked over the city. He could even see Santa Barbara from here. Damn it. For a moment he stayed there and couldn't help but think of the January weekend that he'd spent there with her.

She'd played all her cards right. He'd never tell anyone, but it was the best sex he'd ever had. He had fallen for her tricks and he'd fallen far more easily than he had ever believed. She'd been a colleague for years, a friend, someone who had always had his back, he had trusted her blind. It was so easy to fall for her.

He had sworn to himself long ago that he wouldn't make that mistake ever again, that he'd never ever fall for any woman again, that he'd never ever let anyone get that close. It was hard to admit that Nina had known more about him than Teri ever did. He'd had a lot of time to think about all that, after she had died. There was no single honest relationship he knew of. He'd been disloyal to Teri, more than once, while undercover and even back home in L.A. There were no words to describe that encounter with Nina. Ever since Kate, he hadn't made the same mistakes again, of letting somebody get close. He'd kept her at bay, far enough away to keep the distance that he wanted and just close enough so the world wouldn't notice. Probably that's why it didn't work out. Looking back, he was even glad. He couldn't have cared less and a few months later he'd already slept with Claudia. That one had deceit written all over.

Let it go, he told himself. It doesn't matter. At least he had learned one vital lesson in life.

He turned away from the window and looked over the room where he'd spent the last two weeks. So this is where he had ended up. Rehab. Pathetic. If she were still alive, she'd laugh at him.

The room suddenly felt much too small. He needed to get out of here, away from this all.

Absent-mindedly, he put on sweatpants and a T-shirt and started running, just like he'd done the day before and the days before that.

He had no destination. He just wanted to run, feel the sweat and his pulse racing, as if it would help stop the thoughts.

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Audrey stirred her coffee, thinking about how she could start that conversation. Dr. Stevenson was sitting at the other side of the table in the cafeteria, where they had 'coincidentally' met for coffee. The usual chit-chat was over and it was time get to the point. Dr. Stevenson had already sensed that there was more to this meeting than just coffee.

"What's really on your mind, Audrey?", she finally asked. They had become friends over the course of the past months, working in such close proximity but yet far enough from each other to keep professional boundaries.

She took a deep breath. "Someone I'm in contact with has…" she didn't exactly know how to put it in words, "… severe problems, I fear, and I really want to help him."

"You mean psychological problems?"

Audrey nodded.

"And now you want me to tell you what your friend's problem is?", Dr. Stevenson almost laughed as she said it.

"What's so funny about this?"

"Audrey, I don't even know where to start.", she sighed. "First of all, it would be pretty unprofessional of me to make some kind of a remote diagnosis on a person I've never spoken to. And second, whatever conclusion I come to, it would be deeply influenced by your way of seeing things, since you'd be the one to put these problems into words. Your words."

"I see. Maybe it was a bad idea." She turned back to her coffee.

Dr. Stevenson realized that it she wasn't in the right mood for being cheered up. "Why do his problems bother you so much?"

Audrey stopped stirring her coffee. Damn psychiatrist. She had hoped for answers but instead there were questions that she'd never even asked herself and she couldn't really answer them.
"What makes you believe it bothers me?"

"You're here asking me. That's something you've never done before. Not even when you split up with Paul, you didn't ask me for a professional opinion. Now you do. It seems to me, this friend is important to you."

"He's not." She'd been quick, saying that. It was easy, to say these words. No, Jack was not important to her. He really wasn't. He was a one-night stand, he only one, and she was glad to put that behind her.
He was….
She didn't know how to continue that sentence. No, he was not a friend. He hardly knew anything about her. He was somebody that she used to know. A phone number she felt obliged to call at night, to make sure he was still clean.

Even though she didn't want to share her professional opinion about a person she didn't know at all, Dr. Stevenson nevertheless wanted to know more about Audrey's side. "Why do your friend's problems bother you?"

Audrey did have an answer for that. "I fear I am one of the causal factors for his problems.", she hesitatingly said, adding, "and he's not a friend."

"What kind of problems?"

Could she really say it aloud? That it were substance-abuse problems? Audrey imagined what Cassandra's next questions would be. Why was she a cause for his substance-abuse. Was she abusing herself? What substances?
The answer to any one of these questions would lead Dr. Stevenson closer to the name of the person she was actually talking about: Jack Bauer. When he'd come to the pentagon, a month ago, for the final mission debriefing with the NSA, CIA and CTU joint committee, there had been lots of rumors in the house. The Cordilla-virus crisis in L.A. hadn't gone unnoticed here in Washington. The rumors about a CTU agent who had been undercover in Mexico with a drug cartel and who had become a user himself had quickly spread.

A month earlier, he had confessed to her that the moment he stepped into the building, he could feel the weight of their gazes pressing down on him. It was as if the entire room knew his secrets, the truth about these months undercover laid bare before strangers. Some just gave him a pitiful look while others watched him with clearly voyeuristic curiosity. He imagined they were wondering what it looked like to see a functioning addict in the flesh.

Audrey was sure that Dr. Stevenson knew about the rumors as well. If she told her that her friend was fighting a heroin addiction because she had approved a mission that got him addicted… Dr. Stevenson was neither stupid nor a beginner. She'd instantly know his name.
Audrey didn't want that. The position she was in now was a political one. She didn't want new rumors, especially not rumors involving her name as well.

"Let's just say my… friend… is suffering from some kind of PTSD." She didn't want to use the word friend, but she also didn't find a better one.

"That's already a diagnosis."

"How would you treat it?"

Dr. Stevenson's jaw tightened as she heard Audrey's simple question on how to help someone with PTSD, as if it were a simple DIY project. The question wasn't what bothered her - it was the underlying arrogance, the assumption of others that deep psychological wounds could just be healed with a well-meaning chat over coffee. "Audrey, this isn't a broken leg you put in a splint or a cough. It could be severe. Your friend needs to seek professional help. Talk therapy maybe. Exploring the roots of his trauma and come to terms with behavioral patterns that might be negative."

"I already told him that. He refused." She didn't add all the details – that he wouldn't be able to get help anyway, because the things that he probably needed to come to terms with were all classified on a high level.

"Then there's nothing you can do for your friend, Audrey. Believe me. Get that dream of helping him out of your head."

Audrey realized that she'd hit a sore spot, one where her friend Cassandra was neither able nor willing to give her any further assistance.
But at least she had tried.

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Jack found himself still running, an hour later. He'd started with no aim, and somehow the road had taken him down to San Fernando valley. The woods that surrounded the rehab clinic were gone and replaced by buildings, industry, highways and occasional parks. He didn't even know where was, but he kept going. Somehow, he'd find his way back. He had enough money with him to take a cab, if he really needed to.

But that would be a long way to go. He didn't know how many miles already lay behind him, but he felt like he was able to run for a couple more, because the anger that had driven him out of his room initially was still there, driving him.

Half an hour later, he saw the first building that looked remotely familiar. He stopped and had a closer look. It was a blood donor center. Did it just look like the one he'd once been to, ages ago? He read the address – no, it was the same, Balboa Boulevard.
Three years ago, he'd been here, on a rainy afternoon, killing time. After zapping through the channels and seeing a documentary on how much blood the army hospitals needed every day, he decided on coming here instead of opening a bottle of whiskey, what he'd done in the days before that.

It felt awkward, to realize that now, they wouldn't even accept him. Have you ever used non-prescription drugs? Yes. How long ago? Not long ago.

He took a minute to stretch.
From here, it were only about 1.5 miles to his apartment in Pacoima. He could be there in half an hour.

The life that he'd just left behind two weeks ago was just one of the things that sat in the back of his head, nagging, constantly reminding him that it was still there, wanting to be taken care of. Pay the rent. Had somebody broken in? Or stolen the old station wagon? Even if, he couldn't care less. There was absolutely nothing in this apartment that he cared for. A few boxes with clothes, still unopened, ever since he'd come back from Mexico. The stuff that he really cared about was still in a storage unit, well-hidden under a fake ID, where he'd put it when the mission had decided that the earlier lifer of Jack Bauer was considered a burden. When he had come back, he just hadn't had the heart to bring the family photos to the place that he'd chosen to be closer to his favorite dealers.

He started walking towards Pacoima. He didn't feel like running.
Maybe it was time to face reality again. Hadn't he wanted to leave the confinements of that room up in the rehab facility, because it felt too small? Here he was, back in the real world that was built for temptation instead of redemption.

Two weeks ago, basically all his thoughts had been consumed with drugs. They had been the first thing to think about in the morning, the last thing at night and every minute in between. Looking for a dealer. Contemplating on shooting up in a parking lot, going or home or to that den that he'd run by in just a few minutes.

He still thought about the drugs a lot. But being sober, there was room for other thoughts as well. Like killing Ryan. Nina. Or all the failed relationships and the realization that there hadn't been a single good one.

It was sometimes hard to say if these thoughts were actually better than the constant craving for heroin. It was just different.

He took a turn and avoided to walk by the house on Kagel Canyon Street that served as a den for all kinds of junkies. He'd been there and he wasn't proud of the things that had happened there in the two weeks after Driscoll had fired him.
Get an HIV test, he put on his imaginary to-do list. Again.

He kept on walking, thinking. Every other corner of this city part reminded him of something that had to do with heroin.
Over there was the red light where he'd stopped, totally zonked, and that LAPD car on the lane next to his. For a moment he'd thought that they had stopped for him, not for the red light. It was the night before the one where he'd almost OD'd.
I could easily be dead now, he realized. Why wasn't he?

The apartment building appeared behind the corner. He walked into the driveway. His old brown station wagon was still parked in the same lot. It looked undamaged.

Jack stood at the side of the car and looked around. Two weeks ago, he'd just arrived back here and there had been that black SUV. Now that parking spot was empty.
The moment when she'd stepped out of the car and set her foot on the ground marked a turning point - the first time his endlessly spinning thoughts were replaced by something else, which didn't consist of a bunch of awful memories that he wanted to kill again.

Audrey.

She was the reason why he was still alive.

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I'm sorry they didn't even talk in this chapter, but I want to explore their lives a little. They live very different lives currently and that just can't be neglected. But they'll talk again, I promise!