Fall from Grace
The first thing Tony noticed was the pounding in his head. It felt like someone was using his skull for target practice with a jackhammer. He tried to open his eyes, but even the dim light sent spikes of pain through his temples.
Something was wrong. The bed didn't feel like his – too firm, sheets too crisp. The air smelled different too – pine and wood smoke instead of the stale beer and takeout he'd grown used to.
He attempted to roll over and immediately regretted it as nausea hit him like a tidal wave. His stomach lurched violently.
"Bucket's by the bed if you need it."
Jack's voice. What the hell was Jack doing...
The memories crashed back in fragments – fighting in his kitchen, the knife, Jack's chokehold, the sting of a needle...
Tony barely managed to grab the bucket before his stomach emptied itself. The retching seemed to go on forever, bringing up nothing but bile and whiskey. His whole body shook with the effort.
"Easy." Jack's voice was closer now. A hand touched his shoulder, steadying him. "Just get it all out."
Tony wanted to tell Jack to go to hell, but another wave of nausea hit before he could form the words. When it finally passed, he slumped back against the pillows, eyes still squeezed shut against the light.
"Where..." His voice was raw, barely recognizable. "Where am I?"
"Somewhere safe." Jack's tone was maddeningly calm. "Here, drink this. Small sips."
Something cold pressed against Tony's lips – a glass of water. He wanted to knock it away, but his body's need for hydration overrode his anger. He took a careful sip. The water felt like heaven on his ravaged throat.
"What did you..." He had to stop, swallow hard against rising nausea. "What did you give me?"
"Fast-acting sedative. Non-addictive. You'll feel pretty rough for a few hours, but there won't be any lasting effects."
Tony finally managed to crack his eyes open. The room slowly came into focus – rustic but expensive-looking, all wood panels and exposed beams. A large window showed nothing but snow-covered trees.
"Where the hell are we, Jack?"
"My cabin." Jack set the water glass on the nightstand. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed, watching Tony with that infuriatingly patient expression. "About three hours north of Vancouver."
The words took a moment to penetrate Tony's foggy brain. When they did, he tried to sit up too quickly. The room spun violently.
"Van... Vancouver?" He grabbed the bucket again as his stomach heaved. "You drugged me and took me to Canada?"
"Seemed like the best option."
Tony spat into the bucket, trying to clear the awful taste from his mouth. "The best option? Are you out of your mind? You can't just... just kidnap people across international borders!"
"Actually, I can. Your passport's still valid, and I have friends at the border." Jack's voice remained steady. "Besides, you weren't exactly in a position to make good decisions."
"That wasn't your call to make." Tony finally managed to focus on Jack's face. His friend looked tired but determined. There was a bruise forming on his jaw – Tony had a vague memory of punching him. "You had no right..."
"I had every right." Jack leaned forward in his chair. "You're my friend, and you were killing yourself. Sometimes friends have to make the hard calls."
Tony laughed bitterly, then immediately regretted it as his head throbbed. "Right. Because Jack Bauer always knows best. Always has to save everyone, whether they want it or not."
"You done?" Jack stood up. "There's coffee downstairs when you feel up to it. Bathroom's through that door if you need it. Try to drink water – you're probably pretty dehydrated."
"Jack." Tony's voice was dangerous despite his weakness. "You need to take me home. Now."
"No."
"No?" Tony pushed himself up on shaky arms. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no. You're staying here until you dry out and get your head straight."
"You can't do this. You can't just..." Another wave of nausea hit, and Tony had to grab the bucket again. When he finished retching, he looked up at Jack with bloodshot eyes. "This is kidnapping. False imprisonment."
"Add it to my list of crimes." Jack headed for the door. "Rest. We'll talk more when you're feeling better."
"Jack!" Tony tried to stand but his legs wouldn't cooperate. The room swam sickeningly. "Don't you dare walk away from me!"
But Jack was already gone, closing the door quietly behind him. Tony slumped back against the pillows, fighting waves of nausea and rage. His head felt like it was splitting open, and his whole body ached – probably from the fight, though he only remembered pieces of it.
Time passed strangely. Tony drifted in and out, never quite sleeping but never fully awake either. The light from the window shifted, throwing patterns on the wall that made his head hurt worse. At some point he must have dozed off, because suddenly the room was darker and his mouth tasted even worse.
The nausea had settled somewhat, but his head still pounded. He managed to sit up more slowly this time, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The water glass had been refilled – Jack must have come back while he was out.
Tony forced himself to drink, trying to clear his head. Now that the initial shock and sickness were fading, anger started to burn through the fog. How dare Jack do this? Drug him, kidnap him, drag him to another country against his will?
The bathroom door wasn't locked. Tony stumbled in, gripping the counter for support. The face in the mirror was barely recognizable – pale, unshaven, eyes bloodshot and hollow. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to wake up fully.
Options. He needed options. No phone in the room. No idea where exactly they were, except "north of Vancouver." No car, obviously. But there had to be a way out of here.
Tony made his way to the window on unsteady legs. Snow covered everything he could see, pristine white broken only by dark trees. The sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the snow orange and pink. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't a prison.
His legs were steadier now. The sedative must be wearing off. Tony tried the bedroom door – unlocked. Jack was either very confident or very stupid.
The hallway opened onto a large great room with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, currently dark. The furniture was minimal but expensive-looking. Big windows everywhere showed nothing but snow and trees.
Jack was in the open kitchen, calmly making coffee. He didn't look up when Tony entered.
"There's Advil on the counter if you need it."
Tony ignored him, scanning the room. Two doors besides the one he'd come through. Front door had to be one of them. His shoes were by the coat rack – at least Jack hadn't hidden those.
"Don't." Jack still hadn't looked up from the coffee maker.
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to run. It's fifteen miles to the nearest town, temperature's dropping, and you don't know which direction to go. You'll freeze to death before you make it half a mile."
Tony's hands clenched into fists. "So what's your plan here, Jack? Keep me prisoner until I what? See the error of my ways? Have some big breakthrough about my drinking?"
"Something like that." Jack finally turned around, leaning against the counter. "Coffee?"
"Go to hell."
"Already been. Wasn't impressed." Jack poured two cups anyway. "Sit down before you fall down. You look like shit."
"I wonder why." But Tony's legs were shaking again, and the couch did look inviting. He sat heavily, hating his own weakness. "Maybe because someone drugged me and dragged me across an international border?"
Jack brought him a coffee cup, setting it on the side table. "You would have rather I left you there? Drinking yourself to death in that mess of a house?"
"It was my choice to make."
"No." Jack's voice hardened. "It stopped being just your choice when you started destroying yourself. When you started throwing away everything Michelle sacrificed to save."
Tony surged to his feet, ignoring the way the room spun. "Don't you dare bring her into this!"
"Why not? She's the reason we're here, isn't she? The reason you're trying to drink yourself to death?"
"You don't know anything about it." Tony's voice shook with rage. "You don't know what it was like, coming home from prison to find everything changed. Finding her changed. Looking at me like... like..."
"Like what?" Jack's voice was quieter now. "Like she didn't recognize you?
"Like she was afraid of me." The words came out before Tony could stop them. He sank back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Not... not physically afraid. But afraid of what I'd become. What prison had done to me."
Jack sat in the armchair across from him, saying nothing.
"I couldn't..." Tony rubbed his face with shaking hands. "I couldn't tell her about it. About what it was like in there. The things I thought about. The anger. She wanted me to talk about it, to let her in, but I couldn't... I couldn't put that on her. Not after everything she'd been through because of me."
"So you pushed her away instead."
"I was protecting her!"
"You were protecting yourself." Jack's voice was gentle but firm. "You were afraid if she saw the real damage, she'd leave. So you pushed her away first."
"Shut up." But there was no energy in it now. Tony's head was pounding again. "You don't understand."
"I understand better than you think." Jack took a sip of his coffee. "After Teri died, I pushed Kim away. Convinced myself I was protecting her from what I'd become. From the darkness inside me. All I did was hurt her worse."
"This is different."
"Is it?" Jack set his cup down. "You made a choice to save Michelle's life. Everything that came after – the prison time, the changes in you – those were consequences of that choice. But instead of letting her help you deal with those consequences, you shut her out. Convinced yourself you were protecting her."
"I was—" Tony cut off as his stomach lurched again. He barely made it to the kitchen sink before throwing up what little was left in his stomach.
Jack appeared beside him with a glass of water. "Small sips. The sedative can cause nausea, especially mixed with alcohol withdrawal."
Tony rinsed his mouth, spat. "Alcohol withdrawal? You planning on keeping me here that long?"
"As long as it takes."
Rage surged through Tony again. He spun around, grabbing Jack's shirt. "You self-righteous bastard. You think you can just fix everything? Make all the decisions for everyone else because Jack Bauer knows best?"
Jack didn't resist the grab. "You going to hit me again? Go ahead. Won't change anything."
Tony's fist cocked back... and then dropped. He stumbled away from Jack, towards the front door. "I'm leaving. Now."
"Tony—"
But Tony was already grabbing his shoes, jamming them on without bothering to tie them. His coat was there too – Jack had apparently packed for him. How considerate.
"Tony, don't be stupid."
He yanked the coat on, fumbling with the zipper. His hands were shaking too badly to work it properly.
"The temperature's dropping. There's a storm coming in. You'll die out there."
"Better than being your prisoner." Tony finally got the zipper up and grabbed the door handle.
Jack's voice was resigned. "At least take a flashlight. Sun's almost down."
Tony yanked the door open. Frigid air hit him like a physical blow, but he stepped out anyway. Snow crunched under his feet as he started down what he assumed was a driveway, though it was hard to tell in the gathering darkness.
He made it maybe fifty yards before his legs started shaking. The cold cut through his jacket like it wasn't even there. Everything looked the same – just trees and snow, no landmarks to guide him.
But he kept going. Had to keep going. Couldn't let Jack win. Couldn't let him think he knew what was best for everyone...
The sun vanished behind the mountains, plunging everything into deep blue twilight. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees instantly. Tony's teeth were chattering now, his whole body shivering.
Keep going. Just keep going. There had to be a road somewhere. Houses. Something...
He tripped over something hidden under the snow – probably a root – and went down hard. The impact drove what little air was left from his lungs. For a long moment he just lay there, face pressed into the snow, trying to remember how to breathe.
"You done?"
Jack's voice. Of course. He'd probably been following the whole time.
"Go... go to hell..." Tony's lips were numb, the words barely intelligible.
"Already told you. Been there." Hands grabbed Tony's arms, hauling him up. "Come on. Before you freeze to death."
"Let... let me go..."
"No."
Tony tried to struggle, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. Everything was starting to feel distant, fuzzy. Some part of his brain recognized the symptoms of hypothermia setting in.
Jack half-carried, half-dragged him back to the cabin. Tony's legs gave out completely at the front steps, but Jack just hoisted him up and practically carried him inside.
The warmth hit like a physical blow. Jack deposited Tony on the couch and disappeared, returning moments later with several blankets.
"Get those wet clothes off."
Tony wanted to refuse on principle, but he was shaking too hard to argue. Jack helped him out of the soaked jacket and shoes, then wrapped him in blankets.
"I'll make tea. You need to warm up slowly."
Tony huddled under the blankets, violent shivers wracking his body. His head was pounding worse than ever, and new aches were making themselves known from his fall in the snow.
Jack returned with a steaming mug. "Drink. It'll help."
Tony's hands were shaking too badly to hold the cup. Jack had to help him, which just made everything worse. Being this weak, this helpless, in front of anyone – even Jack – was unbearable.
"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why are you doing this?"
Jack set the mug down. "Because someone has to. Because I watched you save Michelle's life at the cost of everything else, and I'll be damned if I'm going to watch you throw that sacrifice away now."
"It doesn't matter anymore. She left."
"She left because you pushed her away. Because you wouldn't let her help you heal." Jack's voice was quiet but intense. "But she's still alive, Tony. Still out there. And maybe someday, when you're ready, you can try to make things right."
"And if I don't want to?" Tony's shivers were starting to ease, but he felt hollow, emptied out. "If I just want to go home and drink until I forget everything?"
"Not an option."
"So what? You're going to keep me prisoner here forever?"
"If I have to." Jack stood up. "Get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."
Tony watched him head for the stairs. "I hate you for this. You know that, right?"
Jack paused on the first step. "I know. I can live with that, as long as you're alive to hate me."
Then he was gone, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts and the dying light outside. The tea was growing cold on the table, but Tony couldn't summon the energy to reach for it.
He stared out the window at the falling snow, watching darkness claim the world beyond the glass. Somewhere out there was his old life – the broken house, the empty bottles, the memories he couldn't drink away. Somewhere even further was Michelle, building a new life without him.
And here he was, trapped in Jack Bauer's idea of salvation. A prison made of snow and good intentions.
Tony pulled the blankets tighter, fighting another wave of shivers. His head felt like it was splitting open, and his stomach was threatening rebellion again. Withdrawal starting already, or just the aftermath of the sedative?
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. He was here, and Jack wasn't going to let him leave, and everything hurt too much to think about escape right now.
Tomorrow. He'd figure something out tomorrow.
For now, he just watched the snow fall and tried not to think about Michelle. About the look in her eyes when she'd finally given up.
He must have dozed off at some point, because suddenly he was jerking awake, heart pounding, Michelle's name on his lips.
The cabin was dark except for moonlight reflecting off the snow outside. Tony's head felt like it was stuffed with broken glass, every movement sending shards of pain through his skull. His mouth was desert-dry, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"Nightmare?"
Tony nearly jumped out of his skin. Jack was sitting in the armchair across from him, barely visible in the darkness.
"Jesus Christ." Tony's voice was raw. "You been watching me sleep? That's not creepy at all."
"Making sure you didn't try to run again." Jack's voice was maddeningly calm. "Or choke on your own vomit."
"How considerate." Tony tried to stand but his legs wouldn't cooperate. The room spun sickeningly. "What time is it?"
"Little after midnight." There was a rustling sound as Jack stood. "Need the bathroom?"
Tony wanted to tell him to go to hell, but his bladder had other ideas. "Yeah."
"Can you walk?"
"I'm not an invalid." But when Tony tried to stand again, his legs buckled. Jack caught him before he could fall.
"Sure you're not." Jack's grip was firm but careful as he helped Tony toward the bathroom. "The sedative should be mostly out of your system by now. This is probably withdrawal starting."
Tony wanted to argue, but he was too focused on not throwing up or passing out. Jack got him to the bathroom door.
"You good from here?"
Tony nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He managed to make it to the toilet without falling, though it was a close thing. When he finished, he caught sight of himself in the mirror again – somehow he looked even worse than before. His face was gray, eyes sunken, stubble approaching actual beard territory.
"You look like shit." Jack's voice came through the door.
"Thanks for the update." Tony splashed water on his face, trying to clear his head. It didn't help much. "You planning on giving me some privacy, or is this going to be a full surveillance operation?"
"Depends. You planning on trying to drown yourself in the sink?"
Tony yanked the door open, glaring at Jack. "You think this is funny? You think any of this is a joke?"
"No." Jack's expression was serious in the dim light. "I think you're going through alcohol withdrawal and you're going to feel worse before you feel better. I think you're probably already getting tremors, headache, nausea. In a few hours it'll get worse – anxiety, sweating, maybe hallucinations if you've been drinking as much as I think you have."
"So what's your plan?" Tony's voice dripped sarcasm. "Play nurse while I detox? Hold my hand through the DTs?"
"Something like that." Jack gestured back toward the living room. "You should try to drink some water. Might help with the headache."
Tony stayed where he was, gripping the doorframe for support. "And then what? We sit around singing Kumbaya while I pour my heart out? Have some big breakthrough about my drinking?"
"If that's what it takes."
"You're unbelievable." Tony pushed past Jack, stumbling back to the couch. His legs felt like they were made of rubber. "The great Jack Bauer, always knows what's best for everyone else. Always has to save everyone, whether they want it or not."
"You done?" Jack's patience seemed infinite, which just made Tony angrier.
"No, I'm not done! You drugged me, kidnapped me, dragged me across an international border—"
"To stop you from drinking yourself to death."
"That was my choice to make!"
"No." Jack's voice finally showed some emotion – anger, maybe even pain. "You lost the right to make that choice when you decided to throw away everything Michelle sacrificed to save your life."
Tony lunged for him, but his legs betrayed him. He would have fallen if Jack hadn't caught him again.
"Get off me!" Tony tried to push him away, but his arms felt weak, uncoordinated. "Don't you dare talk about Michelle. Don't you dare—"
The nausea hit without warning. Jack somehow got him to the kitchen sink before he started retching, bringing up nothing but bile and cold tea.
"Easy." Jack's hand was on his back, steadying him. "Just breathe through it."
"Don't..." Tony spat into the sink, trying to clear the awful taste from his mouth. "Don't pretend you understand. Don't pretend you know what this is like."
"What what's like?" Jack's voice was quiet. "Losing everything? Watching your whole life fall apart? Having to choose between duty and love?"
"Shut up."
"Or maybe you mean what it's like to push away the people who care about you? To convince yourself you're protecting them when really you're just protecting yourself?"
Tony's legs gave out entirely. He would have slid to the floor if Jack hadn't caught him, lowering him carefully to sit with his back against the kitchen cabinets.
"You think you know everything." Tony's voice was barely a whisper. "Think you've got it all figured out."
"No." Jack sat down next to him, their shoulders almost touching. "I don't know everything. But I know what it's like to lose someone you love. To blame yourself. To want to drink until you can't feel anything anymore."
"This isn't about Teri."
"Isn't it?" Jack's voice was gentle but relentless. "After she died, I pushed everyone away. Convinced myself I was protecting Kim from what I'd become. From the darkness inside me. Sound familiar?"
Tony closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the cabinet. Everything hurt – his head, his stomach, his whole body. But worse than the physical pain was the emptiness inside, the void that the alcohol used to fill.
"She looked at me different." The words came out before he could stop them. "After prison. Like... like she was waiting for me to break. To fall apart. And I couldn't... I couldn't let her see that. Couldn't let her see how close I was to the edge."
"So you pushed her away instead."
"I was protecting her!"
"You were protecting yourself." Jack's voice was still gentle. "You were afraid if she saw the real damage, she'd leave. So you pushed her away first."
Tony wanted to argue, to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. His hands were shaking worse now, and sweat was starting to bead on his forehead despite the chill.
"You're going to start feeling worse soon." Jack stood up, filled a glass with water. "The first 24 hours are the hardest. After that it gets better gradually."
"Voice of experience?" Tony took the water with trembling hands, managed a small sip.
"Something like that." Jack sat back down. "After Teri... let's just say I know what rock bottom looks like."
They sat in silence for a while, Tony sipping water and trying not to throw up again. His thoughts kept circling back to Michelle – her face when she'd told him she was leaving, the way she'd packed her bags so efficiently, like she'd been planning it for weeks. Maybe she had been.
"I don't know how to fix it." The admission felt like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Even if I... even if I get sober. Clean up my act. I don't know how to fix what I broke."
"Maybe you don't." Jack's voice was quiet. "Maybe some things can't be fixed. But you owe it to her – and to yourself – to try."
Another wave of nausea hit. Tony lurched forward, but there was nothing left to throw up. He dry-heaved painfully, Jack's hand steady on his back.
"This is going to get worse before it gets better, isn't it?" Tony finally managed to ask.
"Yeah." Jack helped him back to the couch, wrapped him in blankets again. "But I'll be here. Whether you want me to be or not."
Tony wanted to make some cutting remark about Jack's saviour complex, but he was too exhausted. The tremors were getting worse, and his skin felt like it was crawling.
"Try to rest." Jack's voice seemed to come from far away. "I'll be right here if you need anything."
Tony closed his eyes, trying to focus on breathing through the nausea and shakes. In his mind, he could see Michelle's face – not as she'd looked when she left, but earlier, happier. The day he'd proposed. Their wedding day. The moment she'd walked into CTU medical after the virus scare, alive and immune.
"I really screwed up, didn't I?" He hadn't meant to say it out loud.
"Yeah." Jack's voice was gentle. "But you're still here. Still breathing. That's a start."
Tony didn't respond. The tremors were getting worse, and sweat was soaking through his clothes despite the chill. He could feel darkness gathering at the edges of his consciousness – not sleep, something deeper and more dangerous.
"Jack?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
"Right here."
"If I... if I start seeing things. Hearing things. Don't... don't leave, okay?"
"I'm not going anywhere." Jack's voice was firm. "Try to sleep if you can. I'll wake you if it gets bad."
Tony nodded, though the movement sent spikes of pain through his head. The darkness was getting closer, and he could feel his grip on reality starting to slip.
The last thing he heard before the shadows took him was Jack's voice, steady and sure: "I've got you."
Then there was nothing but the darkness, and the memories, and the long night ahead.
It started with the shaking.
Tony had been through withdrawal before – usually just the morning shakes that a quick drink would fix – but this was different. His whole body trembled violently, muscles spasming beyond his control. Sweat soaked through his clothes despite the bone-deep chills that wracked his frame.
"We need to get you to bed." Jack's voice seemed to come from very far away. "This is going to get worse before it gets better."
Tony tried to respond, but his teeth were chattering too hard to form words. The room kept shifting around him, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. He thought he saw movement in the corners – quick, darting shapes that vanished when he tried to focus on them.
"Can you walk?"
Tony managed to shake his head. His legs felt disconnected from his body, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Jack's arm went around his waist, hauling him up from the couch.
"I've got you. Just lean on me."
The journey to the bedroom was a nightmare of spinning walls and unsteady floors. Tony's stomach lurched with every step, but there was nothing left to throw up. By the time Jack lowered him onto the bed, he was shaking so hard the mattress vibrated.
"Cold," Tony managed to get out between chattering teeth. "So... so cold..."
"That's the withdrawal." Jack was doing something in his peripheral vision, but Tony couldn't focus enough to see what. "Your body temperature is actually elevated. The chills are from your nervous system going haywire."
Tony tried to process this information, but his thoughts kept fragmenting. The shadows in the corners were moving again, taking on vaguely human shapes. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Tony?" Jack's voice was sharp with concern. "Talk to me. What are you seeing?"
"N-nothing. Just... just shadows. Not real. I know they're not... not real..."
"Good. Hold onto that." There was a rustling sound, then the mattress dipped as Jack sat beside him. "I'm going to give you something to help with the symptoms. It's going to sting a bit."
Tony felt something cold swab the inside of his elbow. His eyes flew open in panic.
"No! No more... no more drugs..."
"It's Ativan." Jack's voice was calm, steady. "Standard treatment for severe alcohol withdrawal. It'll help prevent seizures and ease the anxiety. Trust me."
Trust me. How many times had Jack said those words over the years? How many times had Tony followed him into impossible situations based on nothing but that simple phrase?
Something glinted in Jack's hand – a needle. Tony tried to pull away, but his body wouldn't cooperate.
"Easy." Jack's grip on his arm was gentle but immovable. "Deep breath."
The needle slid in smoothly – Jack clearly had practice at this. For a moment nothing happened. Then warmth began spreading through Tony's veins, taking the razor edge off the panic.
"There we go." Jack was disposing of the needle somewhere out of sight. "That should start helping soon. Just try to breathe through it."
Tony wanted to say something sarcastic about Jack's bedside manner, but the words wouldn't come. The shadows were still moving, but they seemed less threatening now. His teeth had stopped chattering quite so violently.
"You've... you've done this before." It wasn't quite a question.
"Yeah." Jack was adjusting pillows behind Tony's back, helping him sit up slightly. "After Teri died... let's just say I know what rock bottom looks like. Had a friend talk me through it, get me the medical help I needed."
"Palmer?"
"Yeah." Jack's voice softened slightly. "He didn't have to. Could have just fired me, let me destroy myself. Instead he..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Anyway. That's why I'm here now. Sometimes you need someone to throw you a lifeline, whether you want it or not."
Tony wanted to argue, to say this was different, but another wave of tremors hit him. The shadows in the corners were taking on more definite shapes now – figures in tactical gear, moving with deadly purpose.
"Jack..." His voice cracked with fear. "There's someone..."
"No one's there." Jack's voice was firm. "It's just the withdrawal playing tricks on your mind. Here – focus on this instead."
There was a clicking sound, then the familiar voices of Cubs broadcasters filled the room. Tony blinked in confusion.
"You... you get baseball up here?"
"Satellite TV." Jack settled into a chair beside the bed. "Got a whole package of archived games. This is from last season – Cubs versus Cardinals at Wrigley. Bottom of the seventh, Cubs down by two with runners on first and third..."
Tony tried to focus on the familiar rhythm of the game, but the shadows kept pulling at his attention. One of them looked like Saunders now, moving closer with that cold smile...
"He's here." Tony's voice was barely a whisper. "Saunders. He's..."
"No." Jack's voice cut through the fear. "Saunders is dead, Tony. Has been for months. What you're seeing isn't real."
"Feels real." Tony's hands clutched at the blankets. "Everything feels..."
"I know." Jack's voice gentled. "The hallucinations can feel very real. But they're not. Focus on my voice. On the game. Remember when we watched the Cubs in the CTU break room? That double-header against the Mets?"
Tony latched onto the memory like a lifeline. "You... you said baseball was boring. Said you didn't understand why anyone would watch nine innings of nothing happening..."
"And you spent an hour explaining the strategy. The statistics. All the things I was missing." Jack chuckled. "Still didn't convince me, but I liked watching you try."
Another wave of tremors hit, worse than before. Tony's back arched off the bed as muscles seized painfully. He might have screamed – he wasn't sure. When it passed, Jack was holding him down with one hand while checking his pulse with the other.
"Heart rate's too high." Jack reached for something out of Tony's view. "Going to give you another dose."
"No... I can't..." Tony tried to pull away, but his body wouldn't respond. "Can't think... can't..."
"You don't need to think right now." The needle slid in again, that same warm spread following. "Just need to get through this. One minute at a time."
The baseball game continued in the background, a steady stream of familiar sounds. Tony tried to focus on it, but the shadows kept drawing his attention. They were everywhere now, filling the corners of the room with half-seen movements.
"Remember this game?" Jack kept his voice casual, though his eyes never left Tony's face. "Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded..."
Tony's eyes flickered to the screen, then away. "Not... not real. Game's not real."
"No, it's a replay. But it happened. You watched it live, remember? Called me after they won."
"Did I?" Tony's brow furrowed. The Ativan was starting to work – his tremors were less violent, though still present. "Can't... can't remember what's real anymore."
"That's okay. I remember for both of us." Jack adjusted Tony's pillows, helped him lie back. "Want to watch? Rizzo's about to hit a double."
Tony's eyes kept darting between the TV and the shadows in the corners of the room. "They're still there. Watching. Waiting..."
Tony let Jack's voice wash over him, a steady stream of mundane stories that had nothing to do with terrorism or betrayal or loss. The Ativan was helping – the shadows seemed less substantial now, though they still flickered at the edges of his vision.
"Nothing there but furniture and shadows." Jack kept his voice matter-of-fact. "Saunders is dead. His men are dead or in prison. Michelle is safe in Seattle. And you're here with me, watching the Cubs win the World Series."
"Michelle..." Tony's voice caught. "She... she left. Because of what I became. What they made me..."
"She left because you pushed her away." Jack's voice was gentle but firm. "Because you wouldn't let her help you heal."
"Couldn't..." Tony's free hand clutched at the blankets. "Couldn't let her see. The darkness. The anger. Would have... would have destroyed her too..."
"So you destroyed yourself instead?"
Tony's laugh was closer to a sob. "Was already destroyed. In prison. Before that maybe. When I chose... when I had to..."
"When you chose to save her life." Jack finished for him. "When you proved you'd sacrifice everything to protect her."
"Didn't protect her." Tony's eyes squeezed shut against tears or visions, Jack couldn't tell which. "Couldn't protect her from what I became. From what the choice did to me."
"Tony, look at me." Jack waited until those haunted eyes met his. "You made the same choice I would have made. The same choice anyone who truly loves someone would make. The mistake wasn't saving her. The mistake was not letting her help you afterward."
Tony's grip on Jack's shirt tightened as another tremor hit. "They're getting closer. In the walls. Under the floor. Can hear them..."
"That's the withdrawal talking." Jack checked Tony's pulse – fast but steady. "The Ativan should help. Just focus on my voice. On the game."
The TV showed the Cubs' victory celebration, fireworks exploding over Wrigley Field. Tony's eyes tracked the explosions warily.
"Not... not fireworks. Gunfire. They're shooting. Have to... have to stop them..."
"It's just fireworks." Jack kept his voice steady. "From when the Cubs won. Remember how happy you were? Called me at three in the morning your time, drunk off your ass, singing 'Go Cubs Go' badly."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Tony's face. "Did that really happen?"
"Yeah, it did. Michelle was laughing in the background. Said you'd been celebrating since the seventh inning."
"Michelle..." The smile vanished. "She's not... she's not safe. They're going to..."
"She's safe." Jack's voice was firm. "Remember? We got Saunders. Stopped the virus. You went to prison, but she lived. She's safe in Seattle now."
"Prison..." Tony's whole body shuddered. "Dark. So dark. Couldn't... couldn't breathe sometimes. Thinking about her. If they'd really killed her. If I'd made the wrong choice..."
"But you didn't. She lived. You saved her."
"Saved her body." Tony's voice was bitter even through the fear. "Killed everything else. Everything we had. Everything we were."
Another violent tremor hit. Tony curled in on himself, still clutching Jack's shirt with one hand.
Time became fluid, measured only by the baseball game's innings and Jack's endless supply of stories. Sometimes Tony would surface enough to follow the thread of conversation, other times he'd lose minutes or maybe hours to the fever dreams of withdrawal.
Through it all, Jack's voice remained constant. When the hallucinations got bad – when Tony saw Michelle bleeding out, saw Saunders holding a knife to her throat, saw CTU exploding in flames – Jack would talk him back to reality. Sometimes with stories, sometimes with memories of their time at CTU, sometimes just with simple statements of fact: You're safe. It's not real. I'm here.
Another Cubs game ended (they lost in extra innings) and another one began. Tony drifted, anchored only by Jack's voice and the familiar rhythm of baseball.
At some point – hours later? Days? – Jack's hand was on his forehead, checking his temperature.
"Fever's breaking." The relief in Jack's voice was evident. "Think we're through the worst of it. Think you can keep down some water?"
Tony managed a small nod. His throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass, and his whole body ached, but the shadows had retreated. The room felt more solid, more real.
Jack helped him sit up, held a glass to his lips. The water was room temperature but felt like heaven on his ravaged throat.
"Small sips." Jack pulled the glass away when Tony tried to drink too quickly. "We can try some crackers later if this stays down."
Tony slumped back against the pillows, exhausted but clearer-headed than he'd been in... how long?
"How..." He had to stop, clear his throat. "How long?"
"About eighteen hours since the worst of it started." Jack set the water glass down. "Another day or two, then we can switch you to oral Ativan. Taper you off slowly."
Tony processed this. Eighteen hours. It felt like years. Like minutes. Like a lifetime.
"You stayed." His voice was rough with more than just dehydration. "The whole time?"
"Told you I would." Jack's expression was unreadable. "Try to rest. I'll be right here if you need anything."
"Jack?" His voice was slurred now, heavy with approaching sleep.
"Still here."
"Did I..." Tony seemed to struggle with the words. "Did I really call you? After the Cubs won?"
"Yeah, you did." Jack smiled slightly at the memory. "Sang the whole fight song. Twice. Michelle recorded it on her phone."
"Michelle..." The name was barely a breath. "Miss her. Miss... who I was. When she loved me..."
"She still loves you." Jack kept his voice gentle. "She just couldn't watch you destroy yourself anymore."
"'m tired." Tony's eyes were fully closed now. "So tired..."
"Then sleep. I'll be here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Tony wanted to say something – thank you, maybe, or I'm sorry, or both – but exhaustion was pulling him under. Real sleep this time, not the fever dreams of withdrawal.
The last thing he heard was Jack's voice, quiet but firm: "I've got you, brother. Just rest."
For the first time in months, Tony slept without nightmares.
He woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the quiet sounds of another baseball game. His body felt like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight, but his head was clearer. The shadows were gone, leaving only ordinary morning light.
Jack was still in the chair beside the bed, though he'd changed clothes at some point. He was watching the game with an expression of mild bewilderment that made Tony almost smile.
"Still don't understand baseball?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
Jack's head snapped around. The relief in his eyes was quickly masked, but Tony caught it.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." Tony managed to push himself up slightly against the pillows. "Several trucks."
"Yeah, that tracks." Jack reached for something on the bedside table – a small pill bottle. "Time for your next dose. We're switching to oral now that you can keep things down."
Tony eyed the pills warily. "More Ativan?"
"Lower dose. We'll taper you off over the next few days." Jack's voice was matter-of-fact. "Unless you'd rather go through that again without medication?"
The memory of the shadows, the hallucinations, the bone-deep terror made Tony shudder. "No. I... no."
Jack handed him the pills and the water glass. Tony's hands were steady enough to manage it himself this time, though the effort left him exhausted.
"The game helping?" Jack gestured at the TV. "You seemed to focus on it better when it was on."
Tony looked at the screen – another Cubs game, though he didn't recognize which one. "Yeah. It's... familiar. Constant. Something to focus on besides..."
"Besides the shadows?"
Tony closed his eyes. "You're going to make me talk about it, aren't you? All of it?"
"Eventually." Jack's voice was quiet. "But not right now. Right now you need to rest. Build your strength back up."
"And then what?" Tony opened his eyes, found Jack watching him with that unreadable expression. "What's your endgame here, Jack?"
"Getting you through withdrawal was step one. The rest... that's up to you." Jack stood up, stretching stiff muscles. "But we've got time to figure it out. You're not going anywhere for a while."
Tony wanted to argue, to say he wasn't staying, wasn't playing along with Jack's intervention plan. But he was too tired, and the memory of those shadows was too fresh.
"The Cubs are losing again," he said instead.
"Are they? I can never tell what's happening." Jack settled back in his chair. "Want to explain it to me? Again?"
Tony recognized the distraction technique for what it was, but found himself explaining anyway. The familiar statistics and strategies helped ground him in reality, gave him something to focus on besides the aches in his body and the growing awareness of everything he'd lost.
Jack listened with that same bemused expression he'd worn years ago in the CTU break room, asking questions that showed he was paying attention even if he didn't really care about the answers.
Outside, snow was falling again, adding another layer of white to their isolation. Tony knew he should be angry – at Jack for bringing him here, at himself for needing it, at the whole situation. But right now, watching baseball and explaining sacrifice flies to Jack Bauer of all people, he could only feel a strange sort of peace.
The shadows were gone, for now at least. The rest... that could wait.
"You're missing the point of the hit-and-run," he told Jack, voice still rough but stronger. "It's not just about advancing the runner. It's about..."
He kept talking, letting the familiar words carry him away from darker thoughts. Jack settled in to listen, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.