Title: Lost In Darkness, Chapter I
Author: callisto24
Fandom: 24 / Renegades
Genre: drama, m/m slash
Theme: After Season6, Jack Bauer meets Hank Storm.
Characters: Jack, Hank, Chase...
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Unbetaed, not my native language, drug abuse, violence, Season6 spoilers...
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, no money made.

 
Thank you very much to njpax who helped me learning about history and situation of Native Americans, especially about the Lakota People in the Pine Ridge Reservation, and patiently answers my stupid questions. *hugs*
 
* * * * *
 
Apologies for mistakes and errors, all mine, and for the possibility that I won’t go on with it and leave them here alone, without Chase.
 
Takes places after Season6
 
* * * * *
 
South Dakota
 
Pine Ridge
 
* * * * *
 
Hank watched the sleeping form lying in front of him and once again he felt shattered by the similarity between the stranger and his lost love. The man wasn’t resting peacefully, nothing comparable to the memories of the deep, almost dreamless sleep, Buster had slept. He had never woken up during the night, in fact, he always had refused to wake up in the morning, stayed under his covers as long as possible. Quite in opposition to Hank who was accustomed to stand up early, who enjoyed the early hours, when life slowly prepared for the day.
 
But this man’s sleep was different. Groaning from time to time, turning restlessly, fighting against the covers like feeling trapped by them he showed various signs of a tortured soul. His eyelids fluttered and painful sighs escaped his lips, while he shivered from coldness in one moment, suffered from heat in the next. The worst was over yet.
 
Though thin and pale, he had managed to go through the withdrawal with a silent strength, Hank admired. Still it was strange to see him in Buster’s bed, a similar face, no way to deny it. The same height and shape of the body, though this one was older, more skinny, well-trained and covered with scars, which had made Hank feel sick the first time he had undressed the limp body to clean him up , when he had started to take care of him, just like he had seen it before in his visions. The decision to give Buster’s room to him, hadn’t come easy. The room, Buster had lived in officially or the rare times he had needed a place of his own, after one of their fights, before they had fallen into each other’s arms again, starved from the lack of touches and kisses, the feeling of dark skin on paler one, even if their separation only had lasted a few hours.
 
Hank pushed the memories back, unable to face his loss again.
 
No matter how many years he had been forced to live without Buster, it hurt with the same strength, the same sharp pain that had cut his heart in the moment, he had known, that he would never be able to see these bright blue eyes again, to touch the fine, golden hair, the sometimes white, sometimes rosy skin again. But there was a time for mourning and a time for looking forward. Right now it seemed to be the latest, for the man in front of him still needed his help. Hank sighed and sank down on the single chair without taking his eyes from the restlessly moving shape. He knew that one sound would be enough to make the man jump up, emanating waves of pure shock, frightened to the core, but only for less than a second, ...cautious then, ready to act fast and recklessly, when the situation demanded it.
 
A warrior he was, Hank had known it before having seen him for the first time. Dangerous, demanding carefulness in the moments he was out of control, lashing out against him, fighting against a threat only he could see.
 
Hank stroke his long, black hair back and wiped the thin film of sweat from his forehead. He had been ready to face the challenge the spirits had promised to send him, had awaitened it eagerly. He hadn’t been allowed to follow Buster like he had longed to, they had made it clear, that his path would lead him into another direction, hadn’t ended this awful night long ago, that he, and he alone, still had work to do before he could join the man he had loved again. And so he had waited, watched the years pass by, received the pictures, visions, telling him from a stranger’s life, connected with his own, a life filled with anger and fear, with violence and loss, death and torture. Hank had tried to stay away, to prevent the images, but at last he had accepted them as the wish of a higher being, as necessary to prepare him for the inevitable task.
 
Nevertheless he had been shocked with the sight of Jack in reality, with the features so familiar and yet so frightening.
 
He owned his nose, his chin, the cheeks, though they seemed more haggard, abused by wind and weather and the past years which had left their traces in thin lines becoming stronger, when emotions ran over the face, which could have been his face in these days. The mouth was his, the same expressive, sensitive lips he had never gotten enough from. But the hair was darker, only some grey strands lightened it up. Buster had worn his long, not as long, as Hank did, but long enough for him to play with it, to stroke it for hours as it had seemed, to bury his face in it, to breathe the sun it had caught during a day of work on the farm.
 
Jack’s hair was shorter, dry, gave away the impression of exhaustion like the whole man did.
 
Hank had found him in an abandoned, dirty street, passed out, ready to die. He wouldn’t ask him if it had been intentionally or an accident. His experience with users had told him long ago, that it didn’t matter. Without a death wish nobody would take the needle.
 
It hadn’t come as a surprise, it had been destined for him to go this way, he had known that it would happen, but still the situation had overwhelmed him.
 
Long ago he had enclosed his feelings deep inside, determined to go through the pain, to watch the burden becoming easier to bear. But it had never happened and he nearly broke down for the first time since years, when the blue eyes opened in pain, when the soft mouth spoke incomprehensible words in a husky voice, he would have recognized everywhere. He had pulled himself together and found the eyes again. And then he saw, that they were empty. Nothing sparkled in their depth, no green stars which had glistened whenever he had lost himself in Buster’s ones, when he was drowning in these two ocean-coloured pools.
 
Jack’s eyes contained nothing, they seemed to be hollow, windows to a dark, bottomless hole inside of the man.
 
Hank had found a few papers, telling him the name of the stranger, but leaving everything else a mystery to him. He had taken him to Pine Ridge, to the house, he lived in. The house which had been filled with laughter once, where he had been happy with his family, with Buster Mc Henry.
 
But maybe something new would appear at the horizon. Maybe he would find out what his fate had reserved for him.
 
* * * * *
 
He closed his eyes, feeling the fatigue himself, the strain of the past days taking its toll. Hank must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he felt, were Jack’s hands around his neck.
 
He gasped for air, struggled to come up, to push the fighting body away, which seemed determined to squeeze the life out of the taller man.
 
It vibrated with tension, clung to him, pressed against him in a desperate attempt to conquer the enemy he supposed Hank to be.
 
Hank winced on the chair, once again surprised at the strength he hadn’t suspected, the extent of either anger or fear, probably both, driving the slim man.
 
But Jack’s weak body was no match for him.
 
Once he had come to his senses, Hank raised one of his long legs and kicked in a skilled move against the other man’s belly. Hadn’t been the first time he had to free himself from a comparable situation.
 
Jack groaned and the grip loosened, allowing Hank to catch his fingers and slowly, but with determination moved them away from his throat.
 
The faint light from the corner, where the thin lines of smoke left the incense burner, were visible in the darkness, when they crossed the shining candles, which flickered because of the unexpected motion in the room.
 
Hank held the suddenly stiff shape tight, waiting for the blond to calm down. He couldn’t make out his eyes or the expression his face wore in this moment, but he felt that Jack tried to understand what was going on. The lower body of the smaller man was caught between Hank’s legs, his cold fingers secured against the broad chest of the Lakota, not even able to shiver like they intended to be. And Hank sensed him escaping from the nightmares in his mind, returning to reality, when his breathing slowed down, the last frantic movements faded away and left him motionless, almost breathless, surrendering to the stronger man.
 
“You’re alright now, Jack? Can I let you go?”
 
Jack nodded unaware of the fact, that the night hid his movements. Hank knew the answer nevertheless and responded by loosening the tightness of his grip, still supporting him in case he would lose balance, a possibility which became more probable the more freedom Jack gained.
 
Before Jack could stumble, Hank drew him closer again, intended to steady his position.
 
“How do you know my name?”
Only a whisper.
 
“Your papers.” Hank answered, his voice soft and deep.
“Don’t worry, you’re in a safe place here. I’ll take care,” he promised after an instant of silence, hiding the emotion, which threatened to make him shiver by strengthening his grip on the other man.
 
“Why?”
The question appeared to be spoken even lower, showing disbelief and fear.
 
Suddenly Hank consciously sensed the closeness between them... too close... too much like... like...
 
He swallowed dryly, cleared his throat and cautiously moved forward pushing Jack backwards until he stood secure again on his own feet, releasing slowly the grip of his hand.
 
“You’d better lie down, Jack, and rest.
Tomorrow you will feel better.”

 
He stood up and led Jack back to the bed, and when he sat down he took a cup and brought it to Jack’s lips. The man grimaced, when he tasted the bitter herbs, but obeyed at once remembering the foreign drink having developed its magic powers before.
 
He laid down then without any resistance, curled together, his face and body adressed to the wall, and closed his eyes immediately. But he wasn’t drifting away yet. He still noticed Hank covering him with blankets, pulling them closer around him, until he nestled comfortably in their warmth.
 
His thoughts whirled around... he wasn’t able to grab and analyze one of them, became confused by the memories overcoming his mind.
 
Jack remembered the cramps, the pain, the longing, he hadn’t been ready to face again when he became violently confronted.
 
And in between the moments he had recognized himself fighting against the torture, crying for release, begging for the drug, there had been this quiet comfort, cool washcloths on his skin, soothing words in a foreign language, mysterious scents and tastes causing him to fly away, to forget about everything.
 
And when his mind finally had swept back into his body, rhythmical sounds accompanied him, sounds like the regular falling of raindrops on a roof, continuing endlessly without a break, created by drums, hypnotizing, paralyzing, sending him further on a journey without aim, making his soul leave his hurting body again, giving him an hour, a minute or a second of desired rest.
 
Jack feared the pain.
He knew that he wouldn’t be able to endure it anymore.
 
* * * * *
 

 
Chase Edmunds watched his own reflection in the mirror.
 
He leant forward, his arms supported by the edge of the sink.
 

 
As usual he ignored the slight pain caused by each strain on his left wrist, the hand, Jack had been forced to cut off so many years ago. From time to time it hurt and he tried to blame the weather. Sometimes he simply used it too much, in a senseless attempt to train its functions, to improve the power he owned over his body, the ability to move a limb without thinking, without an effort, without the everlasting memories. Yet it remained the constant proof of a life filled with failures and deceptions.
 
He had loved to be an agent, had loved his work. It had been everything he ever dreamt of.
 
To be an agent had turned out to be the best thing in his life, the only thing he felt capable of, the only thing, he had ever done right.
 
But not anymore. These times were gone and would never return.
 
Chase stared at the hair, falling down in dark curls, nearly touching his shoulders and barely recognized it his own. It was way too long, but he couldn’t discover the will or the motivation to cut it.
 
If it hadn’t been for his green eyes and the skin, which became paler each day he stayed inside, he would have looked like someone else, someone completely different. But he felt no urge to leave a building, no reason existed, and therefore he stayed inside, inside the office, inside his apartment, which he only left regularly to visit the gym in a fruitless attempt to keep in shape, to stay able to meet each physical challenge he could think of, each one, which wasn’t requiring the complete skills of his left hand.
 
If he wore black contacts and spent enough time in the sun to gain some colour, he maybe would fit into the company of one of his mothers boyfriends, the only one he had ever liked, ages ago, during the weird years of his childhood. Men had come and gone quickly, easily, different faces, he hadn’t noticed, he hadn’t wished to notice. Only one of them he really remembered, the only one who had seen more in him than the annoying child of a hot woman, who had spoken to him as an equal, had taken him out into the wilderness, tought him a certain love for nature and its creatures.
 
He had forgotten about him, the moment his life had changed ... again. When her life went on, when Mum had started to meet other men. And only years later, he had learned, that the man had been a Native American, a man of pride and honour, who had died defending a friend in the city, the same year he had left them. The circumstances hadn’t been explained to him and for a very long time, he hadn’t cared, had kept his thoughts and mind busy arranging himself with new occuring situations. Nothing stayed forever, one of the messages his mother hadn’t been tired of repeating in words and deeds. Later, when he had been old enough to make up his own mind, his plans had developed straightly forward and soon enough he was spending all his time and efforts to be accepted by the academy, to finally flee from home.
 
He wondered if now, after he had seen everything in his life slip away, the experiences had caused a change of priorities, a new perception of life, if that was the reason for him to remember his childhood.clearer than he had ever done before.
 
His hand started to tremble and he bit his lips to hold on a little longer. The doc would rant, but he didn’t care.
There wouldn’t be an improvement and nothing else mattered to him.
 
With a groan he straightened and walked away from the sink, impatiently massaging the scarred skin, feeling the blood flow, pulsating in the long fingers, still strange, still a wonder created by modern medical techniques, but still painful.
 
Sometimes he wished, he would have died this day, that the loss of blood would have killed him, that the virus would have killed them both, him and Jack.
 
Sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t the pain, causing his desperation, but the slow breaking- apart of his life, private as well as professional. Harder to endure were the constant memories he couldn’t run away from, he had to face everytime he watched the ugly scar following the path, where the axe had done its cruel work.
 
He wondered, if he felt the pain, because he wanted to feel it, because he couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried.
 
* * * * *
 
Chase returned to his desk, stared at the bunch of files covering it, raised his head and looked around, taking in the depressing, grey surroundings, the tired, worn - out faces, the faint light, which’s brightness was hidden by the clouds covering the sky.
 
His phone rang and he hesitated for a moment, before he answered it with a groan.
 
“Mr. Edmunds?
This is R.J. Bristol. I know it has been a while, that you ordered me to keep my eyes open, and I told you that I couldn’t promise anything.”
 
“What do you want, Bristol?”
 
“Well, it turned out, that the guy you were looking after, your former partner in CTU has accidentally shown up in the area of one of my contacts. If you...”
 
Chase interrupted him eagerly.
 
“Yes, I am interested. Where is he?”
 
“Not so fast, Edmunds. We’ll have to talk about the money first.”
 
“Money is no issue”, Chase answered quickly. “You’ll give me the information, and I’ll pay for it. That has been the deal.”
 
“Alright then. We’ll meet at the usual place.”
 
With a disturbing bright smile on his lips Chase put the phone down. At least he would be able to see him again. At least he would know...
 
* * * * *
 

 
Jack froze.
 
His teeth clattered audibly and the nearly forgotten nausea threatened to return and to overwhelm him.
 
He couldn’t move.
 
Clear ice covered his body, enclosed him, immobilized him, buried him at the bottom of a crystal lake.
 
Above him he saw fishes captured like him, eyes wide in fear, scared like he was. Prisoners, not knowing if spring will ever appear and free them.
 
He couldn’t breath, the weight of the water increased the more he longed to get rid of it.
 
Slender fingers brushed over his shivering body, shed away the blankets, pulled him upwards, higher and higher, until he rested, found himself in an unexpected warm place.
 
His own frozen fingers wandered around to touch the warmth, to connect with life again.
 
Hank wrapped his arms around the still trembling figure and pulled him next to his body, until they both sat upright, leaning against the wall, which touched the small bed.
 
He felt Jack against his smooth, solid chest, taking in a deep breath, sucking in the air, as if it had been denied to him before.
 
He embraced, lifted him slightly to ease the effort for him, before he held him steady with one arm and used the other one to arrange the covers around them both.
 
The sudden coldness had come as a surprise, an early sign of the soon arriving winter days. He hadn’t noticed the warnings, had been too busy with his guest to notice the nature’s attempts to warn him.
 
When he had woken up from his light slumber, the low whimpering Jack had emitted in his dream, hadn’t been necessary to tell him about the first autumn night.
 
He felt it himself. Cold wind blew over the building, he heard it howling in the cracks and holes, heralds of the future wintertime.
 
Obviously Jack, still suffering from withdrawal, wasn’t accustomed to such a crash of temperature, he froze terribly.
 
Hank couldn’t think of a faster and more effective way to warm the smaller man up, than to use his own body heat.
 
So he quickly had stripped down and slipped under the covers, pulling Jack with him into a sitting position, when he had noticed Jack’s difficulties to breath.
 
He supported him carefully, waited for the first shuddering rising and falling Jack’s chest against his own, watched his breathing calm down before he enclosed him tenderly in his arms and slowly and comforting started to stroke his back and shoulders up and down through the thin fabric of the way too large T-shirt he had picked from his closet an eternity ago..
 
He reached for Jack’s cold hands and encircled, placed them between their bodies.
 
When Jack’s breathing had calmed down, when Hank sensed his blood tickling beneath his skin, the slim figure relaxing against the smooth length of his body, he caught the smaller man’s legs between his own, trying to spend warmth to his feet as well, feeling the wide, sloppy pyjama pants rubbing against his skin.
 
He felt worn out, drained emotionally and physically.
 
The soft sounds of Jack’s sighs, the feeling of his skinny body giving up the tension, warming in the closeness of their embrace, tore on a string of his aching heart.
 
He closed his eyes, bit the tears back, like he had done so often before.
 
He knew that he should leave as soon as Jack would be warmed up, would fall asleep properly. But he knew as well that he couldn’t.
 
It felt too good. It had been too long since he had been close to someone, that he had held someone quietly, had watched another man’s sleep for no reason but love.
 
The countless mornings he had woken up with Buster’s sleeping form curled up in his arms, their limbs entangled, hair ruffled, the covers sticky with the scent of their sex, returned to him in a rush.
 
Sometimes he had held him even tighter, an unshaped fear of the upcoming loss haunting him mercilessly. The visions had never ben clear enough, an untouchable premonition of the upcoming darkness.
 
He had reacted the own way he could think of in the moment of horror, had tried to keep him, squeezed him involuntarily strong enough to wake him up.
 
And when Buster had opened his sleepy blue eyes and groaned with his deep, husky woice and had struggled to escape from the possessive grip of his lover, the blond miraculously always had been eager to continue what exhaustion had ended the former night. He always had been ready to destroy the Lakota’s worries in a rising wave of passion, lifting them higher and higher, leading them simultanously to an explosion and leaving them both panting, satisfied, fulfilled, resting in the afterglow of their shared union.
 
And later they had laughed about his fears though it hadn’t been a happy laughter. They both had known that the spirits spoke to him in their own way, that they weren’t sending their messages in vain, without a purpose.
 
Hank’s fingers had left Jack’s. He clenched his fists pushing the memories back.
 
He had to control his thoughts, he needed no further diversion, neither did Jack.
 

 
Hank looked down, studied the the face, which seemed almost white in the silver moonlight shining through the spaces, where the clouds were ripped open by an invisible power.
 
Suddenly it appeared younger, youthful features resting in peace. Twenty years vanished with the blink of an eye when the pressure of consciousness fell away. The wrinkles, the deep shadows were magically gone, and Hank felt bewitched by the reappearance of this face from the past.
 
Jack’s hair glistened, platinum threads flashed when he moved his head and Hank couldn’t help but rising a hand, gliding it slowly upwards, along the curve of the shoulder, the softness of the neck, the pale cheeks and running it carefully through the short, yet tousled strands.
 
Jack winced with the touch, but stayed asleep, and Hank let out a relieved breath. But the slight movement had another effect on the taller man.
 
Hank felt Jack against his thighs, against his chest and to his astonishment and horror he sensed his arousal growing slowly but undeniably. It started with a nearly forgotten, barely noticeable tickling in his groins.
 
Hank held his breath, froze in shock when his penis gave a twitch, filled with blood, lengthened and hardened. It developed a life of its own seemingly eager to move against the white skin nearby, ... wanting... needing... longing for fulfillment, for a release Hank hadn’t allowed for a very long time.
 
He bit his lower lip and pressed his eyes shut intaking a shuddering breath. His own skin stood in flames, his senses were occupied with the presence of the man in his arms, with his sweet scent, the sudden heat of his body burning him painfully but making him also melt helplessly against Jack’s warmth without being able to get free.
 
Hank’s blood started to boil, he felt it running through his veins forcefully, making him glow all over. Wherever he felt the touch of Jack’s body, it left invisible marks on him, burning through the surface straight to the core of his very being. His hands still held the other man, sensitive fingertips clung to him, moved carefully, sucked in the missed sensations. Slowly down along the delicate earlobe, the long throat, which stayed bent aside as if to give him room for his explorations.
 
The hard chest moving quietly now, the soft nipple, where one of Hank’s fingers separated from his mind and followed the rising form, caressing the small spot which started to react by hardening.
 
And something else hardened too. Hank’s cock throbbed when desire rushed through him, demanded attention, rose painfully against the soft flesh pressed against it for no other reason but giving warmth in innocence.
 
Hank gasped, stirred aghast at his own reaction, at the hardness between his legs, which acted alone, free from his control.
 
Hastily, nearly roughly, he pushed Jack away and climbed out of the bed as quickly as he could manage it. He just found the time to catch the still sleeping form before it could fall back against the wall. Miracously Jack didn’t wake up and carefully Hank made him lie down on the mattress, arranged the messed up blankets around him again.
 
Silently he cursed himself and his lack of foresight. He should have known better, should have known that his body would react and that this reaction might be too much for him to handle.
 
He glanced down on his erect member, which without any doubt still wanted the man in front of him, the man who had visited him in his dreams. He only hadn’t been aware these nights that it hadn’t been Buster coming to him, that another being existed, wearing his lovers features, his body, but keeping a soul of its own, a soul filled with darkness and grief, lost and broken, but still shining brightly for him to find it.
 
Hank watched the sleeping figure, the lips which moved silently, speaking words he couldn’t hear, and he felt the coldness return to him, enveloping him like a coat. He closed his eyes and hugged himself with a deep sigh before he turned and left the room.
 

 
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