Seattle (arriving)

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The laundromat smelled faintly of detergent and damp clothes, the rhythmic sounds of the washing machines filling the silence. Jack sat on a cold, hard plastic chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the spinning drum in front of him. His few shirts and jeans turned endlessly, hypnotically, but he wasn't really watching. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Audrey. She was here. In Seattle. In the same city.

The thought felt surreal even now, after all the decisions he'd made to get here in time. The idea of her being in the same city—so close, yet still out of reach—set his mind racing in ways that made the wait almost unbearable. He shifted in his chair, restless, glancing at his wristwatch even though he knew the time by heart. He'd just looked at his watch two minutes ago. And he knew her timetable by heart, ever since she had told him about it. Her flight would have landed a couple of hours ago. By now, she'd likely be at her hotel, preparing for her meeting. Defense contractors, Boeing executives, and the Secretary of Defense—names and faces Jack couldn't even begin to imagine. Her world was so far removed from his own that it felt almost laughable.

He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. Audrey would be in some high-stakes business meeting while he… sat here. Watching his laundry spin. He thought about how absurd the contrast was, and for a moment, it made him feel impossibly small. Who was he, compared to her? She hated it when he talked about himself the way he often did—calling himself a washed-up ex-junkie, ex-soldier, or just plain an unemployed guy who'd been fired from a government job—but wasn't that the truth? That's exactly what he was.

Or at least, what he'd been.

The trip north to Alaska had been an attempt to prove something, though he hadn't realized it at the time. He'd told himself it was about fulfilling an old promise to Teri, honoring her memory, but somewhere along the way, he'd realized that wasn't the truth. Teri wouldn't have cared about this trip. She'd care about him being there for Kim, about him pulling his life back together. But not this. No, the trip had been for himself, he came to admit—a way to wrestle with the guilt, grief, and anger he hadn't been able to let go of in the years since she died.

Sitting here now, watching the machine churn, he thought about how dangerous the trip had been—more than once. The icy roads, the snapped chain, the few icy turns where he'd nearly crashed into a snowbank or could have gone over the edge. Any of those moments could have ended him, and in the wilderness of the Yukon, that would've been a death sentence. He was lucky to be sitting here now, watching his laundry, alive, feeling restless.

He wondered why Audrey hadn't told him that earlier. That he was taking a senseless risk. That he was trying to prove something to himself with that trip and could gain nothing. He was somehow sure that she'd known that long ago. Sometimes it seemed she knew him better than he did himself. Through those long days in Homer, waiting for the ferry, they had talked every night. Their calls had been the thing that made his day. She'd become his constant—like always, since he got to know her better. He'd told her things he'd never told anyone, things he never thought he'd say aloud. And through it all, she never once told him to give up on his stupid, dangerous, and reckless plans. Not even when he'd admitted to contemplating starting heroin, nine months ago, had she told him to stop outright. She had just listened—she had always just listened. Somehow, without ever forcing him, without ever shaming him, blaming him, forcing him she had always brought him back to the right path. He didn't even know how she'd done it, how she'd quietly, steadfastly guarded him from himself. But she had. And ten days ago, when she'd said she'd be in Seattle, he had instantly dropped the plans for the dangerous ride back. And now – looking back – he was thankful for that.

The ferry ride had felt like regeneration. Three days of stillness, letting his body recover from the relentless cold and exhaustion of the trip north. And as the ferry got closer and closer to the Canadian shore, Jack didn't even realize that he wasn't thinking about Teri anymore. He was thinking about Audrey. What would it be like to see her again? To talk to her face-to-face, not through a secure phone line?

That was the question he kept circling back to, even now, as the machine clicked into its final spin cycle. Would he take her in his arms? Thank her for everything she'd done? That was the easy part. But what then? He'd long since accepted that his feelings for her weren't simple, but now that they were here—so close to meeting—it felt overwhelming. What if he couldn't control himself? What if everything he felt spilled out, and he crossed a line they couldn't come back from?

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. The thought of sleeping with her tomorrow—of repeating what had happened between them two months ago—flashed through his mind. It wasn't that he didn't want to; a part of him wanted nothing more. But he couldn't let it happen. He wouldn't let her make that mistake again, wouldn't let himself. Whatever else came of their meeting, that was a line he wouldn't cross.

She deserved more than that.

The washing machine clattered to a stop, the drum slowing as it came to rest. Jack leaned forward, opening the door and pulling out his clothes. They were still damp, the laundromat's industrial dryers waiting to finish the job. As he loaded his shirts and jeans into a nearby dryer, he thought about her voice during those calls in Homer. How she'd confessed, in an unguarded moment, how much she hated her Secret Service detail. How it made her feel caged, constantly watched, unable to live her life on her own terms. She'd wanted to break free, even for just a little while.

And Jack knew, without hesitation, that he'd help her with that. That was the one thing he could do for her. It was reckless, dangerous, and broke every protocol he could think of—but if she wanted it, he'd make it happen. He owed her that much. He owed her more than that.

He slammed the dryer door shut and turned the dial, the machine roaring to life. He leant back against the counter, crossing his arms and staring at the floor. Tomorrow, he'd see her. Tomorrow, he'd find out how the connection they'd built over weeks of phone calls would feel like, suddenly being face-to-face.

And tomorrow, he'd give her what she needed: freedom. Even if it was just for one afternoon.

Jack returned to the seat, now the rhythmic hum of the dryer filling the laundromat around him. His eyes drifted to the spinning drum, but his thoughts were far from the mundane task at hand. They were on Audrey. On tomorrow. On everything he'd done today to prepare for a moment he wasn't entirely sure he was ready for—but had committed to nonetheless.

It was strange, which details had come to his mind earlier. Details that, in another time, in another life, he wouldn't have even considered. But now? Now they suddenly seemed to matter again.

He thought about the small bottle of aftershave he'd picked up earlier that day. It had felt absurd at first—walking into a drugstore and spending five minutes deliberating over which scent to choose, because they didn't have the one he normally (in a life that felt years ago) used, like he was someone getting ready for a date. Wait – was he? But as ridiculous as it felt, he couldn't bring himself to skip it. He hadn't worn aftershave in… he couldn't even remember how long. Probably not since the last time he'd been to Washington DC, his last day of working for CTU. That day with Audrey. The one time they'd crossed every line. Everything after that had been a blur of drugs and self-destruction. Rehab. Recovery. And then this trip. A trip that, until now, he'd told himself wasn't about her.

But somehow, it strangely felt like she was a big part of this trip.

He'd shaved too—earlier this afternoon, standing over the sink in his motel bathroom. The beard had been wild, unkempt, a product of weeks on the road and a mind too lazy to care. He'd almost laughed at himself when the razor nicked his chin. A little blood. Like it mattered. But it had mattered, he realized, because it was Audrey. He'd even made sure to do it today instead of tomorrow. He didn't want to show up looking like a man who couldn't handle something as simple as shaving.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together absently as the dryer clunked in its final cycle. A decent blue shirt. Blue jeans. His leather jacket. That was what he'd wear tomorrow. Simple. Practical. And above all: clean. He hadn't cared about how he looked in a long time—had told himself he didn't need to. Who for? What for? And maybe that was true. But tomorrow, it would matter.

He glanced at his hands, the empty ring finger of his left hand. For the first time in almost a month, he wasn't wearing the wedding ring anymore. He had taken it off when he had arrived in Seattle, at his motel room.

He shifted in his chair, thinking about what else he'd done today to prepare. The plan of getting Audrey away from the Secret Service detail she despised was reckless, no question about that. Taking her away from a secure location, knowing there was an active threat hanging over her. Just telling her to hop on to his motorcycle and ride away. He thought back, 24 years, to the day he'd once done that with Teri. She hadn't even worn a helmet back then, on 28th July 1984, when he started his 'new life'.

But now? Now he was 42. And he had to admit that over the past 24 years, his recklessness must have diminished somehow. He wasn't the same man he'd been all those years ago. The trip to the pawn shop was proof of that. He'd stood there, meticulously picking out gear for her—a helmet, a leather jacket that looked like it might fit her. When they didn't have any suitable gloves, he had even stopped at a motorcycle store, buying some in what he guessed was her size: 7.

Years ago, he wouldn't have cared about any of that. He wouldn't have thought twice about the risks. He'd probably have just told her to hop onto the bike and sped off without a second thought. But now? Now, he did care. And something about it felt strangely familiar—like the last big trip he'd taken on a motorcycle, back in 1986, with Teri, to Las Vegas to get married. The only time he'd ever stuck to the speed limits, because all he could think about during that trip was the baby in her stomach.

Jack didn't even realize he was sitting there in the laundromat, smiling faintly as he thought back to that ride. It had been the last one. Ever since then, he hadn't owned a bike. For a moment, he felt like he was transported back 22 years, and though the circumstances were wildly different, there was something eerily familiar about the situation now.

It wasn't just about being less reckless, he realized. It was something more. It was Audrey. Endangering her was the last thing he ever wanted to do. She wasn't just another person in his life—she was a precious gift, and he was acutely aware of that.

Tomorrow, that gift would be placed into his hands, just for a few hours. The thought of it made him sit up straighter, the weight of the responsibility settling over him. He would be responsible for her in a way that felt more significant than most of the missions he'd ever undertaken. She would trust him—implicitly, without question—to take her away and let her experience a day of freedom she so desperately craved. And when the day was over, it would be up to him to return her to her polished, protected life in one piece. Unharmed. Untouched. And, if he could, just a little happier than she was now.

That thought stuck with him. Happier. It was such a simple word, but it carried so much weight. Audrey had always seemed strong, composed, unshakable. But he knew better. He'd heard the cracks in her voice during their late-night calls, the weariness she tried to hide but couldn't quite keep out of her tone. He wanted to give her something. Give her something back, in return for all the hours in which she had been there for him. The only thing he could give her was a shot at freedom. Just for a little while, for a few hours.

But it also meant he'd have to ensure that she was safe—and he needed to be prepared. He'd checked out the hotel earlier, made a mental map of the underground parking garage. He knew exactly where he'd take her and how they'd slip past the gate. The bike was small enough to maneuver through the gap. And once they were out, they'd be free. Just for a little while.

Jack chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. Free. The idea sounded almost laughable. There was nothing free about this. Not with the threat hanging over her, not with the consequences if they were caught. And yet, he couldn't stop himself from wanting it—for her. For both of them. When they'd talked about it – about stealing away from the Secret Service for just one afternoon – he had heard it in Audrey's voice how her face lightened up.

His mind wandered to the other thing he'd picked up at the pawn shop. The SIG Sauer. He hadn't wanted it. Hadn't even wanted to look at it. But the thought of Audrey, of the danger she was in… He couldn't take her away from her detail unarmed. If something happened, if the threat became real, he couldn't forgive himself for not being ready.

The memory of handing over his last gun to Audrey before rehab came back to him, sharp and vivid. He wondered where it was now. What had she done with it? They'd never talked about it again, and he wasn't sure she even wanted to. The SIG Sauer was in his motel room now, tucked away. It had felt strangely familiar in his hand, but if it hadn't been for Audrey, he wouldn't have touched a gun. But it wasn't for him. It was for her.

The dryer buzzed, jolting him back to the present. He stood, pulling the warm clothes out and stuffing them into his bag. He slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the door, the cold evening air greeting him as he stepped outside. The bike was waiting for him, a constant companion on this strange, restless journey. He swung his leg over and started the engine, the low rumble growing louder as he pulled out onto the street.

But he didn't head back to the motel right away. Instead, he found himself circling the block around Audrey's hotel. It was quiet, the plaza in front of the glass tower empty save for a few parked cars. He slowed as he passed, glancing toward the entrance, half-hoping, he might catch a glimpse of her.

Nothing. Of course not. She was probably preparing for her meeting, surrounded by staff, Secret Service, and the kind of people who occupied her world—the kind of world Jack had never belonged to.

He parked the bike a short distance away and sat there for a moment, staring at the building. It was elegant, imposing, every bit the kind of place that suited her. She'd never fit in a place like his motel, with its creaky bed and threadbare curtains. And yet, here he was, planning to pull her away from all of it, even if only for a few hours.

Jack sighed, checking his watch. 5:40 PM. He wouldn't see her tonight. Tomorrow. He'd just have to wait. He'd made his plan, taken his precautions. All that was left now was to wait. Sleep one more time. Like a child waiting for Christmas.

He revved the engine lightly, pulling away from the curb and heading back to the motel, his mind swirling with thoughts of tomorrow. Seeing Audrey, talking to her face-to-face—it was something he wanted more than anything. And yet, beneath the anticipation, there was something else. A nagging dread.

He reached into his pocket at a stoplight, feeling the familiar weight of the secure-line phone. It had been his lifeline over the past few weeks, his tether to her. Every conversation, every text—it had been a bridge between them, one he hadn't realized he'd come to depend on so much. And now, tomorrow, he'd have to give it back.

He'd known all along that this moment would come. Weeks ago, Audrey had mentioned it offhandedly, like it was no big deal. She'd said the phone was borrowed from a project, something she'd requisitioned for him, and that she'd need it back in two months. And that deadline had come closer and closer. She hadn't seemed to consider the logistics of returning it, let alone how deeply it had embedded itself in his life.

He had thought about all the ways to return it. Mailing it was out of the question—too risky. Sending it through any intermediary? Even more dangerous. Tomorrow was the only real option. And yet the thought of placing the phone back in her hands, severing that direct line between them, made his chest tighten.

If he were honest with himself, he dreaded it. The idea of losing that constant connection felt unbearable. He would have traded seeing her in person for keeping the phone just a little longer. Wasn't that stupid? The thought made him grip the throttle a little harder, shaking his head as he sped through the evening streets.

He pushed the thoughts aside, telling himself to focus on the present—on tonight, on the moments still within his grasp. He still had the phone now. He could carry it back to the motel, and maybe, just maybe, she'd call. Late at night, after she returned from her trip, her voice warm and soft as they spoke for a few stolen minutes. Or maybe she'd write.

And if not tonight, then tomorrow. They'd figure out the details together—a quiet, hushed call to arrange their meeting. The time, the place, how it would all unfold. It would be enough. He told himself it would be enough.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, forcing himself to focus on the good things that lay ahead: hearing her voice, seeing her face. He shouldn't allow himself to think about what might come after. About losing the connection that had been his lifeline. That was a problem for another day. Tomorrow, for a few precious hours, she'd be right there. And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

As he rode through the quiet streets, he glanced down at the bike. It was filthy—coated in dirt and grime from the long journey. The thought of showing up like that, meeting Audrey with the bike in this state, made him feel uneasy. It didn't sit right.

He spotted a gas station up ahead and pulled in, parking near the hosing station. Cleaning it wasn't just practical; it gave him something to do, something to occupy his hands and clear his mind. He grabbed the hose, the cold metal nozzle in his grip, and started spraying down the bike. The water cut through the grime, revealing the red paint and chrome beneath.

He found himself focusing on the details, meticulously cleaning every corner and crevice. He even crouched down to scrub at the wheels, getting rid of every last speck of dirt. It was unnecessary, even over-the-top, but he couldn't stop himself. As he straightened up, wiping his hands—not on his jeans this time, but on a few paper towels he'd grabbed from the gas station—he gave the bike one final glance. It looked ready, polished enough to match the significance of tomorrow.

And that added one more thing to the list of strange activities he'd done today to prepare for meeting Audrey.

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