Wake Me Up When (December) Ends

Jack didn't think his eyes would open again after the morphine had peacefully lulled him to sleep. But he should know better than to assume anything would ever go as planned for him. This wasn't even the first time Jack had tried to die and put himself out of his misery, yet here he was, conscious and still carrying a lifetime of guilt, darkness, and grief. Except maybe he wasn't quite awake because he wasn't in the hospital, nor was he lying down. No, he was standing without the nerve pain and numbness he had been feeling before the painkillers kicked in. He felt better than he had in years. He had to be dreaming. This was probably the result of some latent brain activity as his body shut down.

As Jack looked around, he concluded that he was in some kind of dark hotel room. Something about it seemed off. He wasn't one to criticise interior design — especially when the suite seemed so lavish — but the furniture was quite dated, maybe from the eighties. He could feel the texture of the carpet he was standing on and realised he was barefoot, which was strange. Nothing in the room seemed to look like anything belonging to him. He could faintly smell perfume and saw a few makeup bags lying around. He really hoped this was a dream and he hadn't been drugged and dragged to some innocent woman's hotel room. Everything was oddly quiet, not in the sense that Jack thought he was alone, but in the sense that he should stay quiet, too, for his own safety. Jack went to the window, observing the night sky before him and knowing without a doubt that he was back in LA. The realisation was painfully familiar.

Jack then checked his pockets. A Beretta 92F and a wallet. The wallet seemed to belong to him based on the name listed on the driver's license and credit card. He had photos of Kim and Teri, too. They were faded from age, almost too much. Kim was very young in them, probably not even at school. Oddly, there was a photo of Audrey in his wallet, too. It wasn't that it was strange to see her. No, just thinking about her made his chest hurt as he wondered how she was doing, whether she had made any progress in coming out of her catatonia. He tried not to think too hard about how he had been the only one, the only one, to get through to her that day and how he hated to think that his presence could be helping her, but the fact that he brought danger with him everywhere he went meant he had to distance himself.

He shook his head, deciding not to spend his final moments spiralling — although he was confused as to why dying was taking such a long time. 

After returning his weapon to his holster and slipping his wallet back into his pocket, he decided to walk into the ensuite, the only section of the room with a light on. Jack looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't seem to have changed in appearance, but he was wearing a white tank top. There was an array of soaps and beauty products on the bathroom counter. He squinted a little to read the small complimentary bottles of shampoo from the hotel. Nakatomi Plaza, the logo read.

Nakatomi Plaza, as in… Die Hard?

He understood that sometimes memories could be associated with movies that held nostalgic value. However, he was pretty sure he had only seen this movie a few times. It was enjoyable, but not one he would consider a favourite. The last time he watched it… would have been with Teri. She had pointed out the similarities between him and John McClane, first with humour and then with subtle digs about how neither he nor McClane were very present husbands or fathers. The memory was painful. It wasn't just about the tension of that moment but also merely thinking about Teri. It was strange to think she was just within reach, in a way. But he knew he would never get to her. Although Jack had never been one to believe in an afterlife despite the Sunday School his father made him attend, he was pretty sure if one existed, he wasn't going to be in the same place as Teri.

Before Jack could try to think further, the sound of automatic gunfire and screaming snapped him into action. Dream or not, he seemed to be a creature of habit, and, well, if he was apparently McClane, he may as well fill the role.

He opened the door slightly, peeking through the gap without allowing enough light to reveal his face. Armed terrorists were grabbing people and dragging them towards the main room, where, if he recalled correctly, the apparent Nakatomi Christmas party was being held. However, Jack observed that none of these terrorists aligned with his vague memory of the movie. In fact, they seemed… quite familiar, recently so. He saw Juma, Dubaku, and a few others he believed had been members of David Emerson's crew. Maybe this wasn't just his mind choosing to replay a movie. Maybe this would be like one of those crazy dreams that took random, possibly uncorrelated memories and thoughts and threw them into a metaphorical blender, outputting a nonsensical smoothie. Given that Hans Gruber was European, Jack supposed he could guess that David Emerson was playing his role here.

Jack decided to look around a little more but wasn't about to walk right into where the terrorists were. Although he wasn't quite sure what the consequences of being shot were here, he wasn't about to test any theories — not yet, at least. Jack frankly had no idea why he was entertaining this. He was dying. There was nothing he could do except wait for death to arrive. But for some reason, he was playing detective, contrary to the stoicism he had established before his eyes had closed in the hospital. Jack supposed he could blame the oddities of his behaviour on his brain slowly running out of oxygen.

The details of his memories were quite surprising. For a movie he had seen a handful of times — and not recently — his brain sure seemed to have recalled a lot. It didn't feel like they were built from the screen, though, nor did it feel like he was familiar with the sets or filming locations. This all felt… real. It was like he was truly in the universe of the movie, seeing everything through McClane's eyes. But why? Sure, he could argue a resemblance between him and the character, but why now? What was so special about Die Hard that it was the last thing his mind was choosing to replay? He supposed trying to make logical sense of this was pointless, but he couldn't let go. As much as he just wanted to see this in black and white, just accept that this dream was an amalgamation of a lifetime of memories, trauma, and an oddly fitting movie, a part of him believed there could be meaning to it, that maybe, just maybe this wasn't something to just observe, but experience.

He got to the level with the boardroom, trying to keep himself hidden under the large wooden table. Through the glass doors, someone was sitting at the end of a long table, surrounded by the same armed men from before. He guessed it was supposed to be Takagi, but it didn't look like him. Jack squinted and strained to hear the voices muffled by the glass. The person sounded like Larry Moss. The 'Hans' asked for his 640 million dollars in bearer bonds. Larry put up a good fight, at least with his words, but soon enough, his blood was sprayed all over the frosted glass window. While he and Larry might not have seen eye-to-eye that day, he certainly hadn't wanted him dead. Frankly, Larry had reminded him a little of Ryan Chappelle and that hurt more. But now it had Jack thinking again about whether there was some metaphor to all his. Everyone he had seen so far was from the last twenty-four hours, except for the people in the photos in his wallet. Either his brain was fixating on it because it was his most recent memory, his last day on Earth, or because of something he hadn't figured out yet.

Jack tried to get closer, slipping through another door and army-crawling along the carpet. His heart was racing, and he felt the familiar adrenaline of being in the field, even though he was still convinced there were no real risks here. Jack felt the need to get as much information as possible. There wasn't much he could hear. It wasn't because of the distance but because the voices sounded muffled. It was like he wasn't supposed to be able to understand them now. His eyes widened when his knee accidentally nudged the table loud enough for the terrorists' charter to quieten. He didn't really feel like engaging with them all was a smart move right now, and he had already killed most of them over the past twenty-four hours, so he didn't feel like doing it again.

After getting to his feet and bolting, praying his body would work as fast as McClane's, Jack ended up hiding around a corner in the hall, waiting anxiously as two of the hostiles approached with their assault rifles. They seemed to decide that the noise had been a false alarm and retreated. Jack took a breath. He then managed to get to the stairwell onto a floor that was under construction. This seemed to be one of the more memorable floors from the movie, where McClane did most of his planning and muttering to himself. He still wasn't sure how closely he was supposed to follow the movie's plot. His dying moments wouldn't be spent assessing his field skill, right? It had to be about the people, including getting close to whoever Hans really was.But if Hans was the focus, then David Emerson didn't seem like the correct identity — although Jack swore he had heard his voice amongst the terrorists.

Trying to remember McClane's actions in the movie was difficult. But so was evaluating whether he would have to reenact them, knowing the results. He knew he should pull the fire alarm right now, with the logic of alerting the authorities. But he distinctly remembered that that hadn't worked. However, as he tried to consider other tactics and walk around the room, he was drawn back to the fire alarm almost magnetically. He supposed one good thing to remember was that McClane didn't die in the movie. So, he had no reason to worry about following the same plan, even if parts were guaranteed to be unsuccessful or do more harm than good.

Soon enough, a hostile came to the top floor. Much like the blonde German man in the movie, he sported a light grey sweatsuit. However, the hostile here was Edward Vossler. Jack hit Vossler with the butt of the gun and then tried to grab him from behind, hoping to get him to the ground as his rifle went off, spraying bullets in all directions at the assorted wood planks and scaffolding. Although he seemed more capable in this dream than he would be in real life at the present moment, the fight was still a decent struggle, both of them shoving each other against metal structural poles and dry-wall, until they came tumbling down the stairs when Jack finally managed to shoot him. He was incredibly out of breath, and his tank top was now stained with dust and Vossler's blood. 

Jack helped himself to Vossler's weapons and ammunition, as well as his radio and wallet. The radio would be a big help, especially in trying to discern Hans' voice. He supposed it wouldn't be a bad idea to scrawl the iconic NOW I HAVE A MACHINE GUN HO-HO-HO on Vossler's grey shirt with blood and get him on the desk chair and down to the party floor via the elevator, if only to get another look at the terrorists and make some notes. McClane might have chosen some provoking and entertaining ways to mess with the terrorists, but hey, they had worked.

He got himself on top of the elevator shaft via the emergency stop function, able to peek through the grates as the dead body arrived egregiously on the main floor, causing a few of the hostages to scream. Now that he wasn't being attacked, he could see the faces better, but the voices still didn't sound discernable or comprehensible. Most of his guesses were correct, and now he could definitely see David Emerson. However, a few of the terrorists looked up more than a few times, which made Jack a little worried, so he got himself out and tried to get to the roof and call for help. Much like the film, the dispatchers were not pleased by his use of a private channel, insisted on him calling 911 and then disconnecting him.

The terrorists followed him to the roof, having heard his attempt at an SOS through their own radio channel. Again, Jack was more than a little impressed by his own abilities here, but he supposed being half-dead in a dream wouldn't have been very fair. He recalled how McClane precariously got between the blades of a large, industrial fan by using his stolen rifle to jam them. It was incredibly nervewracking, and he prayed he wouldn't die or otherwise cease this dream in such a foolish way. The more Jack proceeded, powered not only by adrenaline but also a sheer desire to comprehend this insanity, the more he understood why McClane talked to himself so much. The fact that Jack was alone in this didn't help, either, but he usually preferred it that way. With the way his lightning-fast impulsivity worked, it was much easier not to have someone tailing you and asking you for clarification. At the same time, it also meant he wouldn't have to worry about yet another person's blood on his hands, another person to mourn because of the horrible shadows of death that followed him everywhere he went.

Jack got back to the boardroom, watching as the single cop car pulled up at a torturously slow pace to the building. He wondered if the cop would be somebody he knew, his first known ally in all of this. As Jack tried to smash a window to get their attention, Dubaku entered, and, like McClane, Jack ended up shooting him through the table. If there was one thing he could do to ensure the cop stayed, it was to give them a sign from above. So, he pushed Dubaku's body through the glass, landing on the hood of the car. 

He went to move but suddenly felt like he was in traction. Everything around him seemed to freeze. Jack tried again but to no avail. He was pretty sure he had followed all the steps, so what was wrong? He tried harder to think about this scene. It felt ridiculous that he had to rely not on his years of experience in the army and as a federal agent but on his memory of a relatively popular movie he had seen a handful of times and not recently. But he didn't exactly have a choice, he supposed.

Only one thing came to mind, one thing he hadn't done, but… did he really have to? Jack gave moving one last shot before he decided that he had found the solution to the problem.

"Welcome to the party, pal!" he shouted.

Thankfully, that seemed to do the trick, and he could get back to his main task: figuring out who Hans was. He wasn't convinced by his Emerson theory, and, well, he did have a way to contact him.

'Hans' sounded annoyed as he spoke, assuming the person about to respond to be one of his own. "I thought I told all of you I want radio silence until further-"

"Hello, Hans," Jack said, feeling somewhat stupid. It didn't change his desperation for answers. But it was a little weirder talking to the imaginary bad guys in his head versus just shooting at them like some kind of video game.

"Took you long enough to greet me," the voice replied, and Jack still couldn't make heads or tails of who it belonged to, though he knew he had heard it before, perhaps when it wasn't modulated. "Looks like you're having a lot of fun here, aren't you, Jack?"

His eyebrows rose. Hans hadn't initially known McClane's identity. This was where it got interesting. This was where it diverged from the plot and became not just a regurgitation of the movie but something to do with him personally.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled. "I'm from your head, and you have to ask who I am?"

Jack didn't know why hearing the voice struck him with so much emotion. It had to be someone he knew very well, someone he had a history with. With the voice seemingly masculine — but even then, he wasn't certain — too many people to mind, too many who had a reason to resent him, from the last day to the last three decades or so. He could make an educated guess that it was recent because all the terrorists he had fought so far seemed recent. But then that didn't explain seeing Teri and Audrey in his wallet.

"I need to know why you're doing this. Please." Jack sounded a little more desperate than he intended to. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I won't make it this easy. This has all been crafted so that you can figure this out yourself, Jack."

Hans continued to speak enigmatically, emphasising words here and there. Jack wasn't sure if they were meant to be subconscious hints or simply red herrings to throw him off. Unfortunately, Hans was right about one thing. This was his own brain, his own involuntary concoction, so he knew the answer had to be palpable. He had to think, God damn it. Think.

He grabbed the bricks of C4 and detonators off Dubaku, figuring that Hans wasn't to be trusted but bantering back just to get a rise out of him. 

"Do you really think you have a chance, Mr Cowboy?"

"Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker…" Jack muttered, too impatient to try to fight the natural cinematic order of things here, before bursting through the door.

This was about the time the cop called in over the radio, he recalled, and a moment later, he heard a transmission from the LAPD coming through. He felt his heart skip a beat when he recognised it was Bill on the other end. Jack instinctively told him all the details about the terrorists, knowing he had to play along to some degree. Bill didn't seem to react with too much surprise, speaking in a way that reminded Jack of exactly how he used to when he ran CTU. Of course, it made sense that it was rooted in memory. Bill was just a figment here, not a real person experiencing this. 

"Bill, tell me what's going on."

"It's up to you, Jack. I'm sorry." At least Bill sounded apologetic. Hans had a snarkiness that Jack just couldn't put his finger on.

What further affirmed to Jack that he had to do this on his own was the knowledge that although the cops would attempt to storm the building, they would fail miserably. McClane had been a hero who defied the odds by working alone, and Jack would have to be one, too. Unfortunately, he was recognising more and more why this movie was so appropriate to use as a vehicle for his assorted emotions and memories.

Although the cops weren't exactly real, he still attempted to get Hans to call off the vicious RPG counterattack, his sense of duty prevailing even in a dream. But Hans didn't respond often or with too much enthusiasm. Jack wondered whether this was some kind of tactic to ensure he didn't learn Hans' identity too quickly. It seemed strange to think parts of his brain were effectively antagonising each other, but then again, was that not the point of this? Was this not a battle between the facets of his conscience? The terrorists had to represent some part of him, perhaps the part that the rest of him loathed, while he himself was the root of his identity. If Teri or Audrey was Holly Gennaro, she was the part of him that loved and protected. Then, any allies had to be the rational, pure good in him — which explained why he only had one so far and probably wouldn't acquire too many. Some shrink would probably have a field day picking apart this strange narrative. Jack wasn't really up for psychoanalysis. It just reminded him of those awful debriefs after some of the worst missions of his life, when assorted counsellors, behavioural scientists, and chaplains had tried to help him deal with his trauma, using textbook strategies that had felt patronising to someone who had seen so much death and destruction. 

Jack had wondered when the Ellis character would play into this and who it might belong to. He hadn't encountered anybody Teri dated during their separation. As for Audrey, well, Jack didn't think Paul Raines quite fit this bill. Then he squared his jaw when Hans passed him on to a special 'friend', Frank Trammell, from the American Embassy in Sangala. Trammell had been willing to let Carl and those children suffer just to be recognised as the man who got Jack Bauer back to America for his long-awaited and highly publicised Senate hearing. In some ways, Jack hated people like him more than he hated terrorists. Terrorists at least had an agenda or a cause they served. Even if they were violent and destructive, they were usually delusional enough to believe they were somehow achieving a greater good. People like Trammell, on the other hand, were narcissistic and callous in a way that just felt so contrary to what he stood for and believed in. People might call Jack a cold-blooded killing machine, but nobody understood that it was the opposite. It was because he cared so much about keeping people safe that he had learned to become so methodical about his line of work because stopping to focus on one life could cost hundreds or thousands. It was a terrible choice to make every time, and it never got easier. But he had learned to live with it.  

Despite his contempt for Trammell, Jack tried his best to reason with him and tell him to not be so loose-lipped with information or let his guard down around people who would shoot him if they got bored. His efforts were expectedly futile. He felt guilty, even though he tried to remind himself that this was still in his head and that the real Trammell was probably sitting happily in his office, making people in America and Sangala alike miserable. 

Jack found himself lighting one of the cigarettes he had picked up from Dubaku, watching its trail billow off into the night sky, the cool breeze against his skin. It was an oddly peaceful moment amongst the chaos. There was something also symbolic about the roof being outside the building. It felt closer to the edges of his subconscious. There was a part of him that was disappointed in himself for smoking, knowing he had managed to quit years ago, per Kim's request that he didn't add more fuel to the fire expediting his death. However, it was also one of the least harmful vices he had engaged in, and, well, he was already dying, so a few cigarettes couldn't make that much of a difference. He was getting tired both mentally and physically but knew he had to keep going, although he still wasn't sure why.

A thud made him stop pondering, ready his weapon and start to look around.

"Don't shoot!" a shockingly familiar voice yelled, and Jack found Tony, who was half-crouched with his hands raised.

Jack realised this was the first time he had really seen one of these figures of his past up close without having to fight for his life. The Tony here was not the Tony he saw last. This was the Tony he saw before he walked down those fateful train tracks that would forever change the trajectory of his life. It made his expression soften. He felt a little less alone to have him here. It spoke wonders of how much Tony had changed that this figment of his imagination felt more familiar and comforting than the real Tony he had interacted with over the past day, probably because clinging to memories was always going to paint someone in the best light possible, the nostalgia acting as rose-coloured glasses.

He lowered his weapon, making Tony sigh with relief. Jack offered a hand to get him to his feet. "How are you here?" Before Tony could answer, he quickly followed up with: "I… I know you can't tell me what this is all about, but I mean… in the context of the movie?"

"The hostages downstairs are all people you know," Tony went on. "I've escaped to help you, just like Bill is."

Jack would later click that Tony had answered that in a way that felt a little too scripted, and given how long he had known Tony, he should have picked up the tics of him lying. He knew what this scene was meant to be: Hans masquerading as a hostage, trying to gain McClane's trust before revealing his true colours. But that would imply Tony was Hans. It… it couldn't be. But then again, if he thought back to the last day, Tony had been central to all of it. He might not have been the most vile or powerful terrorist he had encountered — it still felt a little wrong to refer to him like that, but Jack wasn't about to make excuses for him — but he was the one who had hurt him the most. He had influenced so much of that day, all because of his plan to avenge Michelle.

However, it was hard to look at this Tony and convince himself that he was the evil he was trying to fight here. He didn't want to think that way, but unfortunately, he couldn't ignore the facts. He had to assume he couldn't trust Tony.

"I know this is a trap. I remember what happens in the movie."

"Forget the movie, Jack. You should know now that it's just a tool to help you and that anything can happen."

"How are you supposed to help me?"

"Well, as much as you want to act like McClane, there are more terrorists down there than you realise," Tony explained. "Give me a gun, and I can help you escape this."

He handed Tony his pistol, wondering whether he was smart enough to realise it was empty. Did any of the people in this story know what was coming? Were they like actors in a movie or play, or did they feel the reality like they were the characters themselves? If they were part of his consciousness, could Jack control any of them? Influence their decisions? Or was there just one path to take, one story for him to follow until he reached some kind of enlightenment?

"Why you?" Jack asked.

Tony furrowed his brow.

"Out of all the people I know who could help me, why you?"

He shrugged. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Oh, I know. I'm just thinking about how it doesn't make any sense. When I think of people I trust, you are no longer at the top of the list."

Tony huffed. "You're trying to make sense of a fever dream, Jack? Come on."

Jack took a good look at him, hating that he couldn't quite read him, even though this was once the Tony he had trusted with his life. He had to remind himself that that Tony was gone, and he couldn't afford to let his guard down, not when he had come this far. He had to see this through. There was a message to this, and he had to find it.

"Alright, we'll head back downstairs and try to look for who's left," Jack decided, turning around deliberately to give Tony a chance to test his theory.

Jack laughed through his nose as he heard the click of the pistol's safety being turned off. He hadn't wanted to believe it, but he was right.

"I'm surprised you didn't shoot me point-blank, Jack." Even Tony's voice sounded more like how he had spoken recently, cold, indifferent, with a hint of a rasp. 

Jack faced him again, narrowing his eyes with a mirthless smile. Tony now had the buzzcut and goatee he had sported when he saw him, too. "Well, I've come so far. I think McClane deserves his ending, don't you?"

Tony just laughed, but then the sound of the elevator sprung Jack back into action as he took out more of the terrorists of his recent past. Despite this dream feeling pretty realistic, he had yet to experience any particularly painful injuries. Now, he knew what was coming and was not looking forward to it. He had to believe this wasn't just crafted from visual and aural memories but all of his senses; the broken glass piercing his bare feet felt way too visceral. God, was nothing easy with him? He knew he hated himself, but this much? 

He left a nasty trail of blood as he hobbled down a flight of stairs to the bathroom. It was slightly fancier, even sporting a TV playing the news. The anchor sounded garbled like the terrorists had. Jack figured that was a sign that the TV was either unimportant or would only become important when necessary. Jack winced as he picked out every piece of broken glass, hearing successive clinks as they landed in the nearby basin.

But the pain of this was still nothing compared to what he had just processed. This was about Tony. All of it. He was so hurt by Tony's betrayal that his mind had built up an elaborate story. It was all to make Jack realise that it hadn't just been his sense of duty but also his heart driving his actions on his final day. It was understandable. Tony was in the slim Venn diagram of people he had known for a long time and people who were still alive. But Tony was not unscathed. No, a lot had happened to Tony because of him, and he blamed himself for it. There were times when Jack could have been a better friend. There were also times when things might have been out of his control, but Jack still felt responsible for creating such a streak of suffering in Tony's life, much the way he had Kim's. He wished he had the chance to talk to Tony (in the real world) to apologise. But frankly, it was too little, too late, and if their positions were reversed, Jack wasn't sure he would accept an apology, either.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes. He wiped them with the heel of his hand.

"Jack…" a voice called, and he lifted his head to see Michelle. He immediately noticed how out of place she looked. She looked just as she had been in his memories. Same clothes, same hair, same everything. Even the lighting around her looked off. It was like she wasn't part of this memory but had somehow been inserted into it. She looked brighter than everything else. Almost… heavenly. Could it be she was talking to him from beyond?

"Michelle…" he breathed. "I- Are you part of this?"

She shook her head. "I don't have time to explain, but what I can tell you is that you can't give up. I know you're hurting in more ways than one. But you have to keep going."

Her voice was earnest, and there was something almost worried on her face. She seemed so real that Jack had to wonder if this was her spirit… did she know what Tony had done? In a way, he hoped she didn't because she didn't deserve to suffer in the afterlife. At the same time, he hoped she did because he wanted nothing more than to rub that in Tony's face, knowing that Michelle was the only thing that could break him.

"Can I ask what's waiting for me? Will it be worth it?"

"I can't answer that," Michelle lamented. "You have to figure this out on your own, Jack." She then started to fade, confirming she was not quite part of this like the others were. "Good luck. You already have all the answers. You can do this."

He managed to than her before saying goodbye, to which she smiled.

As if on cue, the TV volume increased, and the voices became clear. 

"We're coming to you live from the Bauer residence…"

Bauer? Jack was pretty sure nobody had mentioned his real name so far. The sound was noticeably unique. It was like someone had hit a champagne flute with a fork, the name echoing in a way that penetrated this dream.

The image was overlaid with static, but his heart clutched as a younger version of Kim came onto the screen. She was about the same age as she was in the wallet photo. 

"What do you want to say to your mommy and daddy?"

"I miss you," Kim said, and again, the voice sounded so resonant that he had to stop himself from breaking down. 

It was like she was right there, just within reach. Was this what he was working towards? Jack was starting to believe less and less that he was on his way across the River Styx and more convinced — and alarmed — to consider the possibility that he was still alive but comatose. Kim was as stubborn as he was. She really was her father's daughter, and that meant there was a chance she had tried to save him with the experimental stem cell treatment, defying his wishes. It would disappoint him, just a little, if he woke up, even if the first thing he saw was her face. But he couldn't be mad at her. He was still processing the fact that she wanted him back into her life. A part of him so badly wanted to make up for lost time, even as the more rational, bitter part reminded him that he was the reason for almost everything she had suffered and could make her suffer more just by being around her.

Renee was standing in the background. She looked the same, her FBI suit almost out of place, but her eyes seemed to beg him to listen to his daughter. The thought of living scared him more than dying ever could. He didn't know what he would do with himself or how he would try to rebuild his life this time. He knew there would be failures. He knew he would inevitably let Kim down somehow. But it was clear that she wanted him in her life regardless. She was fighting to get him back. And although Jack knew he had been fighting for something this whole time… the least he could do was follow through for her. If he were more selfish, he would jump off the Nakatomi Plaza building right here, right now. However, he recognised that doing that would disappoint her forever, so the least he could do for her, the very least, was suck it up and try to live. And, well, the fact that Renee seemed to want him to live was a factor, too. Jack wasn't quite sure how he felt about that, felt about her — he had only known her for twenty-four hours, after all — but he did feel a connection through the glow of the CRT screen in the white bathroom, illuminating the deep blood splattered across the white tiles.

So Jack gave it his all, completing the final arc of McClane's story, guiding the hostages, many of whom had familiar faces — but, as expected, none belonging to Teri or Audrey — away from the roof before Tony could blow them all up and leave. Jack was channelling his feelings of uncertainty and hurt into anger now. He wasn't going to let Tony get away with this. Trusting him that day had been a big mistake, and he would not allow anyone to suffer for that again. The heat of the explosion felt more real than expected, which Jack took as a good sign. He was a little more cautious as he rappelled down the skyscraper, believing now more than ever to be a life-or-death situation. Making a mistake would cost him the new chance at life he had been given. The fact that he was scared to lose it had to mean something.

He returned to the level the party had been on, the cool spray of the ceiling sprinklers cooling his singed hair and burnt skin. He made sure to reload his stolen rifle and use the tape to secure his pistol to his back — a struggle, given his exhaustion and how sweaty he was. Although he knew what to expect, it still made his heart stop a moment when he found Tony holding a woman at gunpoint. Her body flickered between Teri and Audrey, both showing equal fear.

"Let her go," Jack asked, almost hurt by how coldly and calmly he was having to speak to Tony, not like he was the man he knew, but like any other terrorist or criminal he had ever fought. 

"We both know I'm not going to do that. Put it down, Jack," Tony ordered, and Jack let his assault rifle fall to the floor, interlocking his hands behind his head.

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't go for the accent since you're so committed to the story, Tony."

Tony snickered. "Well, the thing is, Jack, you're forgetting that nothing is set in stone here. I could still blow her brains out if you piss me off enough."

"I know what this is about now," Jack said, brushing over the threat. "At least, for the most part, this is about me blaming myself for everything that happened to you. At first, I thought the aim was for me to let go of it all, and I didn't see how that could be possible. I will always blame myself for your death, Michelle's, David Palmer's, and so many others. I will blame myself for not supporting you enough when you were in prison and after —  although I also recognise that I did my best and that you never would have listened to me." He sighed, shaking his head. "But what I shouldn't blame myself for is all the decisions you chose to make under Emerson's influence and in the height of your grief. The planes you crashed together, the FBI agents you killed — including Larry — the train you nearly detonated a biological weapon on, and everything you allowed Alan Wilson to get his hands on so you could maybe, just maybe, be alone long enough with him to kill him… are not my fault. You made those decisions on your own, and as much as it hurt to see that, I've come to one conclusion: the Tony I knew died in my arms. The one I saw that day and the one in front of me now is a shell of the man he used to be, and Michelle would despise him."

Jack had hoped, just a little, that that would break Tony the way it might if he had come to him in real life and said all those things, but he remained stoic. It was a little disappointing. However, Tony's reaction didn't matter because the sensation of weight lifting from Jack's chest was incredible. It felt liberating in an honest way. It wasn't like he was just absolving himself or convincing himself to move on. No, he recognised that he wholeheartedly believed every word that had just come out of his mouth. 

"Nice monologue, Jack," Tony commented, completely unaffected. "But I think it's time we wrap this up. What is it that I'm supposed to say here? Oh, that's right: Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker…"

He couldn't help but laugh, and Tony did, too, in a way that was almost psychotic, further affirming how far removed this man was from the man in his memories. He never would have anticipated that come out to the coast, we'll get together, have a few laughs would be so prophetic.

Like the cowboy standoff they were emulating, both of them drew their guns, but Jack was quicker, firing once into Tony's chest, so he stumbled back and collapsed against the glass, eyes wide open with shock.

"Happy trails, Tony," Jack said but soon ran towards them both, knowing he couldn't quite breathe easy yet.

He tried to undo the clasp on the watch, the scene he was trying to replicate crystal clear in his mind, but his eyes widened as Tony used his last chance to grab his arm and pull him down with him.

"Jack, no!" the woman screamed, her voice a perfect blend of Teri and Audrey.

As he fell, he recalled with a slight panic that although it was common to have dreams about falling, you were never supposed to hit the ground. At the start of this mess, he wouldn't have cared if he did, but not anymore. He didn't just go through this for nothing. The world might be against him, but this was him against himself, and he would like to believe he had won.

Jack got closer and closer to the pavement, finding Bill's anxious face in the crowd. He drifted to the stark white floodlights on the ground like the light was some kind of vortex. It engulfed everything, the ruckus becoming eerily silent at the same time. 

There was a pause that felt like an aeon consisting of total nothingness.

Then, his eyes opened, and judging by the sensation in his body, he knew he was firmly grounded in reality. It took some effort to become fully conscious. But as he did so, he took a moment to observe his immediate surroundings. He knew he was in a hospital room; that wasn't hard to deduce. Plastic baubles and tinsel were strung along the walls. There was a large, fresh bouquet of poinsettias and a mini Christmas tree on a nearby table. Renee was resting her head in her hand, half asleep but looking towards him. She was wearing an emerald green sweater that beautifully brought out her eyes.

She met his gaze.

"Oh my God…" Renee uttered, straightening her posture. She sat there, agape, before frantically getting up and calling out to the hallway. "Kim! Kim, he's waking up!"

Nothing made him feel more alive than seeing his daughter's face light up as she entered the room, clasping her hand over her mouth. Renee also seemed a little teary but gave Kim some space as she came over and hugged him — as much as she could without disturbing all the wires, at least — squeezing his hand firmly. The warmth in his chest affirmed to Jack that he had made the right choice and it had all been worth it. He had missed her so much and wanted to make up for every second they had spent apart.

"This… God, all I wanted for Christmas was this, and… and it happened. You're awake. You're okay."

Jack squeezed her hand back. He calculated that he had been comatose for several months then, which explained a lot. But the timing was pretty funny.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he said hoarsely, and it was clear that just hearing his voice made her more emotional.

She sniffled. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."

The assorted beeps of the hospital machinery were slightly irritating, nothing he hadn't heard before. There was, however, a familiarity to the other noises he could hear. 

Kim turned her head. "Oh, it's just the TV. I think Die Hard is playing."

Jack knew he would have to think long and hard about how to ensure he spent his renewed chance at life living in the moment and being there for his daughter. 

But if it was one thing he knew, undoubtedly... he never wanted to watch that movie again.