![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fightingthecageA while ago, I asked for some drabble requests from people. Here's the first two. They're probably more very short ficlets rather than drabbles, but heigh ho.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
peruvianflavor, who requested Jack/smack.
It’s a grey day in Los Angeles for once. Not raining, not cold, not hot, not sunny, not humid, not anything. Clouds hang and move around slowly and nothing much happens. Just a quiet January day, where everyone is recovering from the duel terror threats of braving months of Christmas build-up and then letting off steam with a vengeance on New Years Eve. A couple of weeks later and people haven’t really got over it yet, it seems.
Jack spends the day doing…things. There’s laundry in there somewhere, he thinks. It’s a day off but he goes into the office anyway, just for an hour. The drive in is easy enough, the drive home has him on the edge of his seat. Damn freeway traffic, there are days when he just can’t take it.
Nothing on TV and he hits the buttons of the remote steadily harder as his frustration at the crap on show starts to irritate him properly. He gets up eventually and contemplates running, or working out and finds he can’t really be bothered. A check at the time tells him it’s one pm.
He cleans a bit, swearing at the cord on the vacuum cleaner for not being long enough to do two rooms at once. Scrubbing the bathroom is enough to make him sweat - well I always hated the smell of bleach, right? - even though the day is not hot. He thinks about food but his stomach turns.
Maybe he’s coming down with something.
His apartment isn’t large but it seems smaller than ever today. He hates it suddenly, it feels like he can’t breathe. And maybe he is coming down with something because there’s a sudden slight queasiness about him and he heads for the front door to get some fresh air. Breeze cuts his face like ice and he shivers, although the day is not cold. And when it passes and he walks back inside, silence settles over the apartment like a blanket, the sound of cars on the street are strangely muted. He imagines himself suddenly, in a coffin but alive, everything muffled on the outside and earth starting to hit the lid and he’s too tired to yell for help…
…the clock ticks on the mantelpiece and it’s like a hammer on his eardrums, he feels like sandpaper is being drawn over raw nerves or a drill is being shoved into a broken tooth. He grabs his arm and digs his fingers in, trying to cause pain to calm the irritation but all he can feel is the single bead of sweat that is dribbling slowly down his temple. And all he can think is, but it’s not that hot today…
He sits at the table, detached despite the irritation that’s winding him to the point of wanting to scream. Half an hour later, he’s still there but his cheek is now stuck to the surface with sweat (and I just polished it this morning), he’s not quite sure when he put his head down to rest on it. And the ticking of the clock fills the space, louder and louder and he finds himself watching it, quietly urging it on in the recesses of his mind, unknowingly willing to do anything to get it to move that little bit faster.
It hits five and he has energy again. Guess I’m not getting sick after all, just needed a rest, must be tired. He pulls himself up from the table and makes the bathroom, feeling suddenly alert as he watches the brown liquid bubble on the spoon, the edginess melting into anticipation as he wraps the tourniquet around his arm.
Hate this stuff. I’ll be glad when this mission’s over and I never have to touch it again.
His eyes close as the plunger depresses and his head falls back, there’s the tiniest of moans at the liquid pleasure soaring through his veins.
Don’t see what the big deal is, I can handle this just fine.
Jack Bauer walks out of the bathroom with a peaceful expression, no longer noticing the silence. And the first thing he does is look to the clock on the wall.
Eight hours ‘til the next hit, only eight, that’s OK, no problem, it isn’t affecting me yet anyway…
And forwonsuitewhirled - you gave me a list Mary, and I have ideas for all of them. This one was first on the list though, so here y'are - others will probably be around by tomorrow.
‘OK, so we’ll hit the lead vehicle first. Move up in the confusion, the guys can change positions and alter their angle of fire so they don’t know where the second hits coming from. Secondary team on the standby to move to the middle car and grab the man, OK? Everybody understand?’
No one says a word and Hector rolls up the map with a look of satisfaction. Ramon watches him, a cigar in his hand and then turns to survey the men. ‘You all know what you’re doing then. Be ready in an hour.’
There’s general shuffling and guys turn away to get their shit together. Ramon moves over to Hector, his mind on something else already…and then a voice comes clearly over the movements around him.
‘There’s a better way of doing it.’
Everyone freezes. The rank and file because of horrified shock – they’re so shocked, it takes a beat or two before they start shifting away from the new guy. Bloodstains are hard to clean out, after all, no need to stand near a man that’s about to get his head blown off.
Ramon and Hector freeze from surprise. No one questions orders. They’re not that dumb. They’re just not.
The older brother turns and stares at the guy who’s spoken. The American, the new guy, whose name he can’t remember. He looks a little edgy but not scared. Not even when the barrel of a gun pokes him in the forehead.
‘Then let’s hear it, tough guy. You’ve got one minute and if I don’t like it, you’re dead.’
…
He remembers that day well. Ramon Salazar is not a man given to wishing he could do things differently. He remembers the man speaking, pointing out the way they could ensure the kidnap went off easily – and under normal circumstances, Ramon would have listened to the advice, nodded, and then killed him anyway for impertinence and questioning their authority in front of the others like that.
He’d taken the advice. The job went well, they’d got what they wanted. The man had been beaten unconscious for his rudeness. It had been a good day.
And now he stands and walks a distance of five feet, before his fingers curl tightly, in frustration, around the cold, unmoving bars of his cell. Yes, it had been a good day. But he wishes it had never happened. And for the rest of his life, he’ll regret not pulling that trigger when the man was nothing more than a cocky American, whose name he couldn’t remember.
For
peruvianflavor, who requested Jack/smack.It’s a grey day in Los Angeles for once. Not raining, not cold, not hot, not sunny, not humid, not anything. Clouds hang and move around slowly and nothing much happens. Just a quiet January day, where everyone is recovering from the duel terror threats of braving months of Christmas build-up and then letting off steam with a vengeance on New Years Eve. A couple of weeks later and people haven’t really got over it yet, it seems.
Jack spends the day doing…things. There’s laundry in there somewhere, he thinks. It’s a day off but he goes into the office anyway, just for an hour. The drive in is easy enough, the drive home has him on the edge of his seat. Damn freeway traffic, there are days when he just can’t take it.
Nothing on TV and he hits the buttons of the remote steadily harder as his frustration at the crap on show starts to irritate him properly. He gets up eventually and contemplates running, or working out and finds he can’t really be bothered. A check at the time tells him it’s one pm.
He cleans a bit, swearing at the cord on the vacuum cleaner for not being long enough to do two rooms at once. Scrubbing the bathroom is enough to make him sweat - well I always hated the smell of bleach, right? - even though the day is not hot. He thinks about food but his stomach turns.
Maybe he’s coming down with something.
His apartment isn’t large but it seems smaller than ever today. He hates it suddenly, it feels like he can’t breathe. And maybe he is coming down with something because there’s a sudden slight queasiness about him and he heads for the front door to get some fresh air. Breeze cuts his face like ice and he shivers, although the day is not cold. And when it passes and he walks back inside, silence settles over the apartment like a blanket, the sound of cars on the street are strangely muted. He imagines himself suddenly, in a coffin but alive, everything muffled on the outside and earth starting to hit the lid and he’s too tired to yell for help…
…the clock ticks on the mantelpiece and it’s like a hammer on his eardrums, he feels like sandpaper is being drawn over raw nerves or a drill is being shoved into a broken tooth. He grabs his arm and digs his fingers in, trying to cause pain to calm the irritation but all he can feel is the single bead of sweat that is dribbling slowly down his temple. And all he can think is, but it’s not that hot today…
He sits at the table, detached despite the irritation that’s winding him to the point of wanting to scream. Half an hour later, he’s still there but his cheek is now stuck to the surface with sweat (and I just polished it this morning), he’s not quite sure when he put his head down to rest on it. And the ticking of the clock fills the space, louder and louder and he finds himself watching it, quietly urging it on in the recesses of his mind, unknowingly willing to do anything to get it to move that little bit faster.
It hits five and he has energy again. Guess I’m not getting sick after all, just needed a rest, must be tired. He pulls himself up from the table and makes the bathroom, feeling suddenly alert as he watches the brown liquid bubble on the spoon, the edginess melting into anticipation as he wraps the tourniquet around his arm.
Hate this stuff. I’ll be glad when this mission’s over and I never have to touch it again.
His eyes close as the plunger depresses and his head falls back, there’s the tiniest of moans at the liquid pleasure soaring through his veins.
Don’t see what the big deal is, I can handle this just fine.
Jack Bauer walks out of the bathroom with a peaceful expression, no longer noticing the silence. And the first thing he does is look to the clock on the wall.
Eight hours ‘til the next hit, only eight, that’s OK, no problem, it isn’t affecting me yet anyway…
And for
wonsuitewhirled - you gave me a list Mary, and I have ideas for all of them. This one was first on the list though, so here y'are - others will probably be around by tomorrow.‘OK, so we’ll hit the lead vehicle first. Move up in the confusion, the guys can change positions and alter their angle of fire so they don’t know where the second hits coming from. Secondary team on the standby to move to the middle car and grab the man, OK? Everybody understand?’
No one says a word and Hector rolls up the map with a look of satisfaction. Ramon watches him, a cigar in his hand and then turns to survey the men. ‘You all know what you’re doing then. Be ready in an hour.’
There’s general shuffling and guys turn away to get their shit together. Ramon moves over to Hector, his mind on something else already…and then a voice comes clearly over the movements around him.
‘There’s a better way of doing it.’
Everyone freezes. The rank and file because of horrified shock – they’re so shocked, it takes a beat or two before they start shifting away from the new guy. Bloodstains are hard to clean out, after all, no need to stand near a man that’s about to get his head blown off.
Ramon and Hector freeze from surprise. No one questions orders. They’re not that dumb. They’re just not.
The older brother turns and stares at the guy who’s spoken. The American, the new guy, whose name he can’t remember. He looks a little edgy but not scared. Not even when the barrel of a gun pokes him in the forehead.
‘Then let’s hear it, tough guy. You’ve got one minute and if I don’t like it, you’re dead.’
…
He remembers that day well. Ramon Salazar is not a man given to wishing he could do things differently. He remembers the man speaking, pointing out the way they could ensure the kidnap went off easily – and under normal circumstances, Ramon would have listened to the advice, nodded, and then killed him anyway for impertinence and questioning their authority in front of the others like that.
He’d taken the advice. The job went well, they’d got what they wanted. The man had been beaten unconscious for his rudeness. It had been a good day.
And now he stands and walks a distance of five feet, before his fingers curl tightly, in frustration, around the cold, unmoving bars of his cell. Yes, it had been a good day. But he wishes it had never happened. And for the rest of his life, he’ll regret not pulling that trigger when the man was nothing more than a cocky American, whose name he couldn’t remember.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-01-29 02:48 am (UTC)