Fic: Common Causes [Jack/Assad, 24]
Title: Common Causes
Author: E.K Bradshaw
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Assad
Warnings: Vaguely slashy. Hand-touching. If you're Vulcan, this may offend. XD
Summary: Set sometime during Day 6, Jack and Assad stake out an old warehouse believed to be Fayed's hideout. Assad has a bad idea -- and Jack has seen more than his fair share of bad ideas. Originally written for a now-defunct fic challenge and dedicated to rekindle959. Merry Christmas, dear! XD I know this isn't QUITE what you wanted, but I tried. LOL.
Disclaimer: 24 and the characters depicted herein are, unfortunately, not mine, and are reserved under their respective copyrights and/or trademarks. Keifer Sutherland and Alexander Siddig also belong to themselves. This is a work of fiction, for entertaiment purposes only. No profit is being made.
“Dammit, Assad.”
The incredulous protest rang out, lingering heavy in the air between passenger and driver. “You can’t seriously be considering this.” But Assad was, and Jack’s protests--however adamant--fell ultimately on deaf ears. The man clearly wasn’t hearing a thing Jack was saying, and if Jack could infer anything at all about the way Hamri al-Assad thought (the fact that he could was the most disquieting notion of all), he knew his newfound partner had no doubt already devised a way into the warehouse full of hostiles they were presently staked out behind.
“His guards will be heavily armed,” was Assad’s reply, straight to the point. “Can you see anything from here?”
Jack lifted a pair of long-range binoculars and made a quick scan of the area. The small storage warehouse was in the center of a remote industrial area that looked to have been abandoned for some time. From his vantage point, the place looked innocuous enough--nobody in sight, no visible guards on the outside, though that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Jack had been doing this long enough to know better.
“Back door’s open,” Jack noted aloud. “Looks like it leads to a loading dock. There’s a maroon van parked directly inside.”
“Someone is here,” observed Assad.
“Assad, this is a bad idea.” And trust me, when it comes to bad ideas, I’ve seen a few.
The idea in question that Assad was proposing was, in Jack’s opinion, ludicrous--one man alone, against a small militia of armed terrorists. Adding to Jack’s personal sense of urgency was the potential that, somewhere inside that building, there was a madman with a nuclear device ready to detonate at any moment, and the fact that communications with CTU had been down for almost five minutes now. Were Assad to go in as he so wished, Jack had to admit the odds would not be in his favor. “I don’t like this,” he told Assad point-blank, and it was a hell of an understatement where he was concerned.
“What is necessary is not always pleasant,” Assad responded levelly, and Jack resisted the urge to reach across the front seat and strangle him. He didn’t need Assad to tell him that. Still, it was just--it was suicide, and Jack knew it. The fact that Assad knew it as well, and was being so goddamned nonchalant about it--
“Assad, listen to me. This isn’t necessary. CTU has a tactical team en route, if we just hold our positions and wait--”
“Dammit, Jack, we don’t have time to wait for CTU.” Assad cut him off briskly. “We cannot wait. If Fayed is here, now, we must take this opportunity to eliminate him. And I, alone, must be the one to do it.”
“No.” Jack was already shaking his head. “Fayed is desperate. He knows we’re closing on him. Sending you in there with no backup--”
“He will not be expecting me,” said Assad, matter-of-factly. “As far as Fayed knows, I am dead.” He took a deep breath, eyes set with lucid resolve as he met Jack’s gaze. “I am well aware of the risks I face here. But I cannot and will not allow you to stand in my way.” A hand came to rest lightly on Jack’s arm. “The difference between you and I, is that you are not expendable. I am.”
“You’re not,” was Jack’s reply. His mouth was suddenly dry as the desert, and he found he could not bring himself to form that word--expendable--that had slipped with so much unnerving ease from Assad’s tongue. Expendable, as if he fancied himself a piece of collateral, something disposable that could easily be abandoned, discarded. Jack wondered why the idea so disturbed him, told himself it didn’t matter--even if he knew damn well that it did.
He watched as Assad rummaged through the center console, pulled out a semi-automatic pistol and loaded a clip. Then he was backward in his seat, retrieving an impressive assault rifle from beneath the back seat. Clearly, Jack thought, he had well been prepared for this.
“Where did you--” Jack started.
“It came with the car,” quipped Assad with the slightest of smiles, though the grim look in his eyes remained. The smile faded quickly. “Jack, may I ask you a personal favor?”
“Of course.”
“In the event that I should perish here, I want the world to know the truth of my mission. It is also important that those who follow me in my cause for peace are made aware of my sacrifice.”
Ever the martyr, no matter the cause, thought Jack. Some things never change.
How well he, himself, knew.
“I’m going to ask you one more time not to do this.”
“This is my fight, Jack.” Assad’s gentle words were an absolution. “It isn’t yours.”
It was then that Jack said something that truly surprised Assad--hell, it surprised even himself. Whether it was the simple words or the sentiment they carried, neither of them could quite be sure. But when Jack spoke, he felt shields drop between them, saw the hard-set look in the golden eyes staring back at him relent.
“Al ma’raka lana,” Jack said. The struggle is ours. My fight is your fight.
He wasn’t sure if it was even the proper translation. It had been near a decade since Beirut, and his Arabic was rusty at best, though Assad seemed to have understood well enough. It was the sort of thing one might say to a comrade-in-arms, to a partner. The statement itself brought to mind images of unity, of camaraderie--the two of them back-to-back in the heat of a firefight, one backing up the other against the world and worse. An unspoken connection--I am on your side--because one was just like the other, and their cause was the same. They were the same.
“You are a noble man, Jack,” he said. “One who sees using both his heart and his mind. Let no person in this entire world ever change that for you.” His fingers trailed briefly over the back of Jack’s hand, and Jack could sense there was something more he wanted to say. But he didn’t. There wasn’t time. There was never enough time. “May peace and mercy follow wherever you go,” was what he said in the end. Then, Assad was shouldering the rifle in its holster, the car door was open and he was gone, heading across the parking lot toward the warehouse.
“Goddamn it,” Jack swore and, without a moment’s hesitation, exited the car and followed him.
FIN
Yaaay. :D Jassad = my happy place.
Now it's onto writing football!fic. XD Is it bad that I've a plot bunny revolving around the semi-cracked premise of Urban Meyer finding a stuffed baby elephant on his desk (along with a sign reading "KNOW YOUR ENEMY") and not knowing who put it there? Call it the elephant in the room. I have no idea. Tim Tebow's a hell of a drug.
AIGHT, I'M OUT.
Peace,
--EKB
Author: E.K Bradshaw
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Assad
Warnings: Vaguely slashy. Hand-touching. If you're Vulcan, this may offend. XD
Summary: Set sometime during Day 6, Jack and Assad stake out an old warehouse believed to be Fayed's hideout. Assad has a bad idea -- and Jack has seen more than his fair share of bad ideas. Originally written for a now-defunct fic challenge and dedicated to rekindle959. Merry Christmas, dear! XD I know this isn't QUITE what you wanted, but I tried. LOL.
Disclaimer: 24 and the characters depicted herein are, unfortunately, not mine, and are reserved under their respective copyrights and/or trademarks. Keifer Sutherland and Alexander Siddig also belong to themselves. This is a work of fiction, for entertaiment purposes only. No profit is being made.
“Dammit, Assad.”
The incredulous protest rang out, lingering heavy in the air between passenger and driver. “You can’t seriously be considering this.” But Assad was, and Jack’s protests--however adamant--fell ultimately on deaf ears. The man clearly wasn’t hearing a thing Jack was saying, and if Jack could infer anything at all about the way Hamri al-Assad thought (the fact that he could was the most disquieting notion of all), he knew his newfound partner had no doubt already devised a way into the warehouse full of hostiles they were presently staked out behind.
“His guards will be heavily armed,” was Assad’s reply, straight to the point. “Can you see anything from here?”
Jack lifted a pair of long-range binoculars and made a quick scan of the area. The small storage warehouse was in the center of a remote industrial area that looked to have been abandoned for some time. From his vantage point, the place looked innocuous enough--nobody in sight, no visible guards on the outside, though that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Jack had been doing this long enough to know better.
“Back door’s open,” Jack noted aloud. “Looks like it leads to a loading dock. There’s a maroon van parked directly inside.”
“Someone is here,” observed Assad.
“Assad, this is a bad idea.” And trust me, when it comes to bad ideas, I’ve seen a few.
The idea in question that Assad was proposing was, in Jack’s opinion, ludicrous--one man alone, against a small militia of armed terrorists. Adding to Jack’s personal sense of urgency was the potential that, somewhere inside that building, there was a madman with a nuclear device ready to detonate at any moment, and the fact that communications with CTU had been down for almost five minutes now. Were Assad to go in as he so wished, Jack had to admit the odds would not be in his favor. “I don’t like this,” he told Assad point-blank, and it was a hell of an understatement where he was concerned.
“What is necessary is not always pleasant,” Assad responded levelly, and Jack resisted the urge to reach across the front seat and strangle him. He didn’t need Assad to tell him that. Still, it was just--it was suicide, and Jack knew it. The fact that Assad knew it as well, and was being so goddamned nonchalant about it--
“Assad, listen to me. This isn’t necessary. CTU has a tactical team en route, if we just hold our positions and wait--”
“Dammit, Jack, we don’t have time to wait for CTU.” Assad cut him off briskly. “We cannot wait. If Fayed is here, now, we must take this opportunity to eliminate him. And I, alone, must be the one to do it.”
“No.” Jack was already shaking his head. “Fayed is desperate. He knows we’re closing on him. Sending you in there with no backup--”
“He will not be expecting me,” said Assad, matter-of-factly. “As far as Fayed knows, I am dead.” He took a deep breath, eyes set with lucid resolve as he met Jack’s gaze. “I am well aware of the risks I face here. But I cannot and will not allow you to stand in my way.” A hand came to rest lightly on Jack’s arm. “The difference between you and I, is that you are not expendable. I am.”
“You’re not,” was Jack’s reply. His mouth was suddenly dry as the desert, and he found he could not bring himself to form that word--expendable--that had slipped with so much unnerving ease from Assad’s tongue. Expendable, as if he fancied himself a piece of collateral, something disposable that could easily be abandoned, discarded. Jack wondered why the idea so disturbed him, told himself it didn’t matter--even if he knew damn well that it did.
He watched as Assad rummaged through the center console, pulled out a semi-automatic pistol and loaded a clip. Then he was backward in his seat, retrieving an impressive assault rifle from beneath the back seat. Clearly, Jack thought, he had well been prepared for this.
“Where did you--” Jack started.
“It came with the car,” quipped Assad with the slightest of smiles, though the grim look in his eyes remained. The smile faded quickly. “Jack, may I ask you a personal favor?”
“Of course.”
“In the event that I should perish here, I want the world to know the truth of my mission. It is also important that those who follow me in my cause for peace are made aware of my sacrifice.”
Ever the martyr, no matter the cause, thought Jack. Some things never change.
How well he, himself, knew.
“I’m going to ask you one more time not to do this.”
“This is my fight, Jack.” Assad’s gentle words were an absolution. “It isn’t yours.”
It was then that Jack said something that truly surprised Assad--hell, it surprised even himself. Whether it was the simple words or the sentiment they carried, neither of them could quite be sure. But when Jack spoke, he felt shields drop between them, saw the hard-set look in the golden eyes staring back at him relent.
“Al ma’raka lana,” Jack said. The struggle is ours. My fight is your fight.
He wasn’t sure if it was even the proper translation. It had been near a decade since Beirut, and his Arabic was rusty at best, though Assad seemed to have understood well enough. It was the sort of thing one might say to a comrade-in-arms, to a partner. The statement itself brought to mind images of unity, of camaraderie--the two of them back-to-back in the heat of a firefight, one backing up the other against the world and worse. An unspoken connection--I am on your side--because one was just like the other, and their cause was the same. They were the same.
“You are a noble man, Jack,” he said. “One who sees using both his heart and his mind. Let no person in this entire world ever change that for you.” His fingers trailed briefly over the back of Jack’s hand, and Jack could sense there was something more he wanted to say. But he didn’t. There wasn’t time. There was never enough time. “May peace and mercy follow wherever you go,” was what he said in the end. Then, Assad was shouldering the rifle in its holster, the car door was open and he was gone, heading across the parking lot toward the warehouse.
“Goddamn it,” Jack swore and, without a moment’s hesitation, exited the car and followed him.
FIN
Yaaay. :D Jassad = my happy place.
Now it's onto writing football!fic. XD Is it bad that I've a plot bunny revolving around the semi-cracked premise of Urban Meyer finding a stuffed baby elephant on his desk (along with a sign reading "KNOW YOUR ENEMY") and not knowing who put it there? Call it the elephant in the room. I have no idea. Tim Tebow's a hell of a drug.
AIGHT, I'M OUT.
Peace,
--EKB