Full Tilt (1/1)
Title: Full Tilt
Author: ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
wordsthatfail
Rating: R for language and adult situations
Characters: Chloe, Jack
Spoilers: This is set post-Day Three, about two weeks before Jack’s fateful meeting with Erin Driscoll.
Summary: About last night ...
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine; the words are. Please don’t take legal action — lowly college students aren’t worth suing, anyway.
A/N: Written for the ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
chlack Cliché Fic-a-thon challenge. Also, like all my stuff, this is unbeta’d, but be brutal. I welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
Cliché: Jack and Chloe wake up in the same bed with no memory of the previous night.
P.S. Cross-posted to chlack.
Jesus and a half.
Though her eyes are still closed, consciousness already hurts. A lot.
She knows the pounding in her head and the sticky-sour dryness in her mouth are only part of the first phase. She’s been here, sagging against the threshold of a hangover from the seventh circle of hell, a few times too many.
Wincing, she cracks one eye open.
Ugh.
The apartment is washed in mid-morning sunlight. It’s too harsh, too bright; even the quiet is too loud.
Curled on her side, she struggles to focus on the kitchen island just across the airy studio, but can’t decide which one is real — the blurry one or the spinning one.
Both?
“Stop,” she groans into her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut.
The mattress dips as someone shifts behind her on the queen-sized bed.
Chloe freezes, her eyes snapping open.
What the —
The jackhammer inside her skull cranks to a level beyond excruciating.
Who ... ?
She lies completely still for a moment, gathering her splintered, dehydrated thoughts, trying to remember the previous night.
And ...
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She frowns, invisible sandpaper scraping across the backs of her eyeballs.
Never. Drinking. Again.
She eases onto her back and wills the ceiling to stop swirling.
Okay.
Taking a steadying breath, she turns her head to face her anonymous bedfellow.
Not okay.
Her stomach roils.
So not okay.
* * * * *
“So here’s the thing.”
He scrawls his signature on the latest after-action report and puts down the pen before his expectant gaze cuts to Chloe.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot.
He quirks one eyebrow, waiting.
She clasps her hands in front of her and licks her lips. “This week has been pretty awful for everybody. And your abrasive management hasn’t really helped,” she says in a rush, watching as his mouth opens to interject. “But,” she continues before he can interrupt, “it’s Friday, I’m finished, and I’m having a beer on my way home. I think you should, too.”
He blinks, his surprise evident.
“With you?”
She blows out a short, impatient breath. “Yes, Jack. With me.”
A half-smile ghosts across his lips and he tucks the stack of paperwork in a manila CTU folder.
“All right.”
* * * * *
She blinks once. Twice. Three times.
He’s still there.
Jack is in her bed. He’s sprawled on his stomach, one arm curled beneath his pillow, his face half-buried in the soft down. Her white Ikea sheets are snaked around his bare torso.
Jack Bauer is sleeping in my bed. Shirtless. In my bed.
Fresh pain throbs behind her eyes.
I slept with Jack. Oh god, did I sleep with him?
Her stomach lurches again, and she stifles a groan.
This is so unprofessional.
She sits up slowly, minding the unholy pounding inside her head, and swings her legs out of bed.
Her world tilts, and she closes her eyes, gripping the edge of the mattress.
Never again, I swear.
Jack stirs again behind her, and Chloe’s spine stiffens. An iron band of icy panic clamps around her rib cage, and she wonders if she can flee to the bathroom without waking him.
Oh, screw it. There’s no way this won’t be awkward, anyway.
She stands shakily and turns to face her oblivious boss.
“Wake up,” she orders in the steadiest voice she can manage, belatedly realizing she’s wearing only a thin cotton camisole and a matching pair of bikini underwear.
Jack’s eyes open and he flinches.
“Son of a bitch,” he hisses, screwing them shut.
“Get up,” Chloe insists flatly.
Jack massages his temple with the heel of one hand.
“’Morning to you, too,” he rasps, opening his eyes carefully this time, his jaw clenched against the brightness.
His gaze settles on Chloe and he fights to focus, until something snaps into place behind those bloodshot blue-green eyes.
“Chloe?”
* * * * *
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is what people do at ten o’clock on a Friday night,” Jack counters.
“People?” Chloe gestures impatiently toward the crowded bar. “These aren’t people, they’re alcoholics in training.”
Jack chuckles and drains the last of his beer. “You want another one?” he asks, setting the empty amber bottle on the scuffed wooden tabletop.
She wrinkles her nose. “I have a better idea. Let’s go.”
“What? Chloe, we’ve been here fifteen minutes.”
“And that’s fifteen minutes too long.” She stands. “It’ll take you at least another ten to get through that — ” She tilts her head toward the jostling throng surrounding the bar. “And for what? To pay twice what you normally would for terrible domestic beer, then sit back down so we can make stilted conversation at the top of our lungs? No thanks. I have some Grey Goose at my place — come on.”
Jack grabs his jacket and raises an eyebrow. “So we’re moving straight to the hard stuff?”
She blinks. “Oh, sorry. I just assumed you could handle it.”
* * * * *
“Look, we don’t have to make this a thing.” Chloe cinches the belt of her terrycloth robe.
“A thing,” Jack echoes, fumbling with the buttons of his rumpled black shirt. “All right,” he mutters, frowning down at his inept fingers.
“And it’s not,” she continues. “A thing, I mean.”
Jack nods, his eyes still on the stubborn buttons.
“Okay, then.”
“Okay.” He pauses and looks up. “Chloe, did we, ah ... ” He trails off.
“Sleep together?” The words are sharper than she intended.
His cheeks redden and he clears his throat. “Well, yeah.”
“Well, Jack, if we did, I’d hope it would be a little more memorable,” she snaps, ignoring the hardwood pitching beneath her bare feet.
He grimaces and swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry — ”
“It’s — we were wasted and I — ” A frown creases her features as she stares down at the floor. “I don’t know.”
Jack runs a hand through his disheveled blond hair. He lets out a short, uncertain breath. “Chloe, I — ”
“This is my fault, too,” she interrupts, pressing one hand against the exposed brick wall. And all that vodka. “Like I said, we were drunk. We don’t have to turn this into a — a thing.”
“I — ”
“Just don’t.” Please.
“But — ”
“Stop — ” Her stomach clenches and her face pales. She covers her mouth with her hand.
“Chloe?”
She doesn’t answer; she just shakes her head tersely and rushes to the bathroom, gagging behind her palm.
Never. Drinking. Again.
* * * * *
“Cheers.”
Their shot glasses clink together and Chloe downs the vodka in one smooth swallow. She clenches her jaw against the burn, determined not to make a face as the clear liquid makes a fast, warm slide into her stomach.
She frowns and studies the bottle sitting on the floor between them. “How many was that?”
“Four,” Jack replies without hesitation.
“Four? You sure it wasn’t three?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Four? Already?”
“I can count, dammit.”
She chortles and leans her back against the couch. “So you’re intense even when you drink.”
Jack quirks an eyebrow and stares into his empty glass. “I’m intense?”
“Are you intense?” Chloe parrots, chuckling. “Are you kidding?”
He laughs then — an honest-to-god laugh, straight from his stomach — and Chloe realizes she’s never heard him do so.
“Yes, I’m kidding.”
“That’s a first,” she quips. “I think we’re ready for number five.”
Jack shifts on the hardwood and reaches for the bottle. “All right.”
Apprehension steals across her features. “Wait.”
He freezes. “What?”
“Is this okay?”
“What?”
“This.” Chloe gestures toward the fifth of Grey Goose, biting her lower lip. “Is this bad? Is this like replacing one vice with another? Am I — am I enabling you?”
“No, it’s fine,” Jack assures her with a lopsided half-smile, a little surprised by her concern. “Just because I’m not shooting up anymore doesn’t mean I’m going to crawl into the bottom of a bottle.”
Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Oh. Okay.” She pauses. “How’s the program going?”
Jack toys with the shot glass in his hand. “It’s going,” he says finally. “I haven’t touched anything since I entered it.”
“Good — that’s really great, Jack.” Her eyes cut back to the vodka. “Now pour us two more shots.”
* * * * *
She exits the bathroom twenty minutes later on shaky legs.
My boss just heard me dry heave for an extended amount of time.
She shuffles into the living area, where Jack waits on the couch with a glass of water. She perches on the edge of the cushion, one arm cradling her stomach.
“Here,” he offers quietly, pushing the glass toward her on the coffee table.
She clutches the glass in one hand and takes two sips before setting it back down.
“Better?” he asks.
“No.”
Her eyes move to the empty vodka bottle on the floor, the two shot glasses stacked haphazardly beside it. Her stomach flips.
“We drank the whole fifth?”
Jack nods wordlessly.
“God,” she groans, dropping her head in her hands.
* * * * *
“I don’t think Driscoll likes you.”
Jack squints at Chloe. “You think?”
She nods gravely, scooting her empty shot glass closer to the almost-empty bottle of Grey Goose.
“Huh.” He frowns, then shrugs. “I do my job. I’m good. At my job.”
“You’re drunk,” Chloe grins, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
Jack ignores the declaration. “Think she’s worried ‘cause I used to run the place?”
“Hmm.” Chloe purses her lips. “No,” she says finally, “I think she feels ... threatened.” She pauses. “Wait. Is that the same thing?”
“Yeah, sorta.”
“Well, I think that’s it. She’s a little afraid of what you’re capable of.”
Jack reaches for the bottle. “Think that goes for everybody?”
“Hmm?”
“Are they scared? Of me?”
Chloe considers the question. “Maybe. I dunno.”
Jack’s shoulders slump. “Are you?”
“No.”
“But I’m abrasive.”
“So am I.”
“So you’re not afraid of me?”
“We already covered this. No.”
He stares down at his hands. “Maybe you should be.”
“You’re not doing this,” Chloe scoffs.
His head jerks up. “What?”
“This.” She leans toward him and pokes his shoulder with her index finger. “The whole ‘I’ve done terrible things,’ tough-guy-with-a-bleeding-heart monologue. You’re not doing it.”
Jack furrows his brow. “I’m not?”
“No. It’s depressing.”
He laughs so hard his shoulders shake. “Christ, Chloe — we should do this again.”
“Only if you can keep up,” she teases, grabbing the vodka.
“Gimme that,” he smirks, taking the bottle from her hand. “Here’s to number — ” He pauses. “Fuck. This is twelve, I think.”
“Twelve each?”
“Twelve each.”
“Um, that’s a lot. Like, a lot-lot. Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“But not positive.”
“Dammit, Chloe — ”
“Relax,” she giggles. “I trust you.”
* * * * *
Chloe leans forward on the couch and rests her forehead on her knees.
“Aren’t you gonna throw up?” Her voice is muffled against the terrycloth of her robe.
“I don’t think so.”
She turns her head slightly sideways, strands of blond hair falling across her forehead. “Why don’t you have alcohol poisoning?”
Jack manages a grim smile. “I’m pretty sure I do.”
Chloe closes her eyes as the room spins. “Well, you don’t act like it.”
“Military training.”
She groans.
Jack places a tentative hand on her elbow. “Chloe?”
“Mmmph?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
* * * * *
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?”
“Yeah, uh-oh. Vodka’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone.”
“Motherfu — are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Really really?”
“Chloe, it’s gone. You just drained the fucking bottle.”
“Oh, yeah. Oops.”
He chuckles and staggers to his feet. “Christ.” He squints at his watch. “And it’s five in the morning.”
Chloe tries — and fails — to sit up. “Wow. I bet the Times is here. I’ll read it when I can ... ” She frowns, thinking hard. “Uh, read.” She nods. “When I can read again.”
Shaking his head with a wry smirk, Jack extends his hand. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed. I should go.”
“Go?” Chloe ignores his offer and dissolves into laughter. “You’ve had as much as me, you idiot. You’re sleeping it off right here.”
“Your couch is more of a loveseat — I won’t fit.”
She shrugs. “So sleep with me.”
He raises one eyebrow.
“Oh,” she laughs sheepishly. “No, no, no. I meant sleep. With me. In my bed. Not, like, y’know.” She cocks her head. “I mean, not that having sex with you is laughable, but — ” Then she claps a hand over her mouth and watches Jack’s lips twitch. “Oh god. We’re striking this conversation from the — the thing.”
“The thing?” he prompts, bemused.
“Y’know, the thing,” she insists, struggling into a sitting position. “The record.”
“Done,” he chortles. “C’mon, lemme help you.”
She grabs both his hands and together, they manage to pull her slight frame from the floor.
The room shifts and she clasps Jack’s elbow to steady herself.
“This way,” she mutters, holding one arm out for balance as she teeters toward her bed.
Jack averts his gaze while Chloe strips off her white blouse and stumbles out of her pinstriped pants.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes as she collapses on the mattress. “I’m in my pajamas, for fuck’s sake.”
“That’s what you call your underwear?” He clumsily unbuttons his shirt and drops it unceremoniously to the hardwood, then empties the pockets of his black khakis and tosses his badge, cell phone, wallet and keys onto the shirt.
Amused, Chloe smiles into her pillow. “Good night.”
“’Night,” he echoes, settling onto his side of the bed.
She closes her eyes and melts into the mattress.
“Chloe?”
Her eyes snap open. “What?”
“I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”
“Jack, shut up and sleep.”
* * * * *
She sits up and draws in a deep breath, then hooks a lock of hair behind one ear.
“We didn’t.”
He nods slowly. “That’s good.”
“Yeah. Think how awkward that would be.”
“Yeah.”
They lapse into silence.
“Next time, I think we should stick to beer.”
“If I survive this hangover, there won’t be a next time,” Chloe vows, cradling her head. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Her stomach twists again and she whimpers into her palms. “You know, for two people who call themselves intelligence agents, we’re pretty stupid. That whole fifth ... ” She slumps against the back of the couch. “If either of us gets called in today, the terrorists will win.”
As if on cue, Jack’s cell phone rings.
Chloe’s eyes widen and she swallows back horrified laughter.
Maybe it’s just Kim.
While Jack fishes his phone out of his pocket, Chloe’s cell chirps on the kitchen island.
“Oh god,” she groans.
