Current mood:	creative
Current music:	coldplay: violet hill

fic: city of angels
Title: City of Angels
Fandom: 24
Characters: Carl Benton, with mentions of Jack Bauer
Rating: PG-13 if only for the mention of death.
Notes: Originally this was supposed to be a little comment ficlet based off a prompt for another community I'm not a member of (I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was), but it expanded to 1200 words. So it gets an entry all to itself. This is set between Day 4 and Day 5.


It's the familiar sounds of tires screeching on concrete that wakes him from the light sleep he's been in for the last few hours, the C-17 finally touching down at Edwards AFB north of Los Angeles after a long flight.

Carl yawns silently and then leans forward to reach for his bag, unstrapping his harness and shifting in the canvas 'jumpseat' as the other passengers do the same. Military personnel are allowed to fly on cargo flights as long as they've got space on them, and a handful of other soldiers hitched a ride as well, but he didn't make much conversation. He wasn't wearing a uniform and he had his iPod on for nearly the entire flight. Nobody asked questions.

He wouldn't have answered them if they had.

(He couldn't have answered them, even if he'd wanted to.)

His pack slung over his shoulder, he walks down the loading ramp of the Globemaster III and heads for the hangar, and after some brief conversation and the exchange of information, he's pocketing the keys to an 'unmarked' truck. Standard California plates, a full tank of gas, and it's not long before he's heading south on the 14, easily blending in with the traffic.

There's nothing on the radio that interests him, but he leaves it on for background noise. He hits traffic near Santa Clarita once he's on the 5, but he doesn't stay on it for long.

In his head, there's an image of a white piece of paper with written directions on it. He doesn't need to read them to know where he's going, because he spent every night over the last three days memorizing the turn-by-turn instructions for the route he's taking.

He feels like he's on autopilot, a machine tasked with traveling to a destination for the sole purpose of accomplishing a mission, but he knows it's more than that.

June 20, 2010. The weather is clear skies with zero chance of rain, high temperature expected to be somewhere in the low nineties. Winds out of the north at five miles per hour. Sunrise was at 5:42 AM, and sunset will occur at 8:08 PM.

Carl knows the details because he's been paying attention, replaying them in his head since this morning, facts running on a continuous loop that wouldn't stop replaying no matter what he tried to listen to or focus on. Navigating through the city is effortless. He barely realizes that he's reached the cemetery - only when the radio dies as he turns off the engine does his mind snap out of the focused awareness of the soldier mentality.

He steps from the vehicle and locks the doors, before heading inside the office to find out where the grave site is located. It doesn't take long for the woman in charge of the records to consult the computer to find the file, and he declines her offer to write it down on a card for him. He doesn't need it.

He walks, rather than driving, footsteps hardly making a sound as he follows the road deeper into the near-silent cemetery. He's counting steps in the back of his mind, tracing his path, scanning the rows of stones for possible threats, planning an exit strategy. His feet travel from asphalt to plush grass (he wonders how much they spend on water to keep it green in this summer heat) and he carefully travels between the stones, eyes wandering the names and dates until he sees what he's looking for.

Bauer

He stops.

For a long time, he doesn't move a muscle, standing with his hands resting loosely at his sides. He idly wonders what he's supposed to be feeling, since nothing seems to be registering on an emotional level. The only thing that's actually registering is a tremble in his fingertips that wasn't present earlier.

Eventually he sits, a few feet from the headstone to the far side of Jack's grave.

(He would never come between husband and wife, even in death some things were still sacred.)

Carl draws his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his chin against his knees, eyes focused on the words carved into the smooth stone. The date.

He'd been out of the country when Jack was killed, and it took time for the details to trickle through the Delta community. Jack had been out of the service for years, but they'd still kept in touch - up until two years ago when Jack went undercover for an op with CTU and Carl had been dark for months.

The phone call came from a mutual friend, a blinking light on the answering machine in his apartment that he'd ignored the first night back in the States in favor of a hot shower and a solid night's sleep. The next morning he'd listened to it, replayed it a half-dozen times.

Jack was dead. They had been like brothers, come up through the training together and served together with Delta, been through some of the worst situations imaginable...he'd saved Jack's hide a few times over the years and Jack had done the same for him...too many times to count. He was always one of the first men in and one of the last men out, and one of the select few that Carl trusted with everything. They were family.

He'd missed the funeral, and if his friend hadn't thought to call him, he might have gone another six months before he found out what had happened.

Jack was dead.

He doesn't realize that his vision is blurring until he feels the heat stinging the back of his eyes, at which point he hastily wipes at the tears with the heel of his hand, willing them to stop.

They don't.

(Eventually he just buries his face against his knees and stops trying, letting them fall silently. No sounds, no sobs, just tears. His breathing stays methodical and even, fingertips pressing against the denim fabric of his jeans until he manages to get a grip on himself.)

He lifts his head and sits up a little straighter, pulling in a deep breath. After a few minutes, he slowly rises to his feet, ignoring the shake in his legs as he stands.

Part of him wants to apologize - for not keeping in better touch, for not being there to protect his friend, for missing the funeral - but the words won't come. And deep down, he knows that the apology is unnecessary. Jack is gone (and if he was around, he'd probably tell Carl to not even think about saying he was sorry for things out of his control) and it wouldn't change the past.

Death is final. There's nothing he can do to change it.

After a silent pause and without hesitation, he straightens and stands at attention, right hand coming up in a proper salute.

"It was an honor, Captain."

After he allows his hand to return to his side, Carl glances skyward, briefly.

A wistful smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. His next words are whispered so low that the light breeze doesn't even get a chance to grab them - but they were only meant for one person to hear.

"I'll be seein' you, Jack."

With one last look at the headstone he nods, before he turns and walks away.