Writer's note: Although I still disagree with Renee Walker's death, the writer in me had to explore it a little. And the voices inside my head outvoted me, so here we have it. The title is a trial one - I'm not sure I like it, but I'm posting it anyway. Hope you guys like this little drabble. Ninja-edited an error - go ahead and lemme know if I missed anything. :)


I've never been one to mince words, so here it is: I'm dying.

My name is Renee Walker. Not Renee Zadan, to my incredible relief. Sometimes I have to be her, but I'm not, not really. I'm just me, zipped up in my Zadan suit, trying to do what I need to do for my country.

My name's not Renee Bauer either, though I think…maybe…

It hurts too much to think.


He's carrying me, Jack is. The world swirls around us. I feel like we're flying, and if only the pain were gone, I might enjoy that. There's nothing I'd rather do than stand, run, fight by Jack's side, but there's a certain peace in letting someone carry me.

Jack jumps in a cab and I hear the tires squeal. They sound distant – everything is blurred and dimmed, everything except Jack's voice and the roar of the pain in my chest – chest? Gut? I don't know where the bullet hit. My whole torso is burning.

He tells me I'm going to be all right. He's begging me to breathe. And then he pulls me closer, up against his chest and he rocks me, repeating, "I've got you. I've got you."

The truth is, he had me. He had me long ago, on the day we met, before the day was even half through. I'd tried to convince myself that I was going along with him because it was right, and yeah, that's partially true. But the whole truth is, I'd jump into hell if he needed me to.

He had me. But he can't keep me much longer.

Because I'm dying. And it's breaking my heart.


He lays me down, and I'm sprawled atop a gurney. People all in white swarm around me like flies. The gurney rattles less than the cab did as they shove it down to what must be some sort of operating room. That's what they do when people get shot, right?

Isn't anyone going to tell them I'm dying?


It's so hard to belief that I wanted so badly to die. People aren't supposed to want to die. Especially not people in love with someone they've known for a day and a half.

Of course, people aren't supposed to be in love with someone so soon. That's what all the parents say, right? Take it slow, lust isn't love, love takes time?

Maybe the shortest loves are the sweetest. Maybe they're the truest, since there's no way time or greed or hate can contaminate a love that lasts only a day and a half.

So why do I wish above all other things that I had more time?


I close my eyes. I imagined what it was like to die – back when I wanted to. Back when I tried the first time. But even after I slit my wrists, it never felt like this – like the pain is dragging me down into a sea of darkness.

I wasn't lying when I told Jack that I didn't have anybody. I alienated every friend I had when I went rogue at the FBI, when I tortured Alan Wilson because the bastard was going to walk and Jack was going to die for nothing.

But then Jack walked into that conference room today, and it felt like we had never parted. It wasn't until he said he didn't think I'd want to see him, that I remembered how I alienated him, too, in my shame. Shame, not for what I did to Wilson, but for what I did to myself. I couldn't bear to see his face or hear his voice when he found out I tried to kill myself.

Jack gave me the most precious gift of all – himself. His knowledge, his protection, his dedication, his body, and above all…his love.

Yeah. His love. I could tell.


I feel the pain surging every inch of me, now, and I can't tell if the doctors are still trying to save me or not. They probably are – isn't that what doctors do? – but they…they shouldn't.

Jack wouldn't like me thinking like that. But Jack…oh, Jack. He wouldn't begrudge me for dying. The pain is so heavy and the promise of its end is so sweet. I've never tasted anything I wanted so much as I want this pain to stop. Except…except him. His kisses, his skin, that's the most wonderful thing I've felt or tasted in a long time.

But I'm dying, and it hurts to think. It hurts to fight.

And so I don't.

I don't think, I don't fight. I just remember.

I remember his needy, open-mouthed kisses. I remember his hands roaming me, so coarse and so gentle. I remember his weight on me, and alternatively, his body under mine.

And I remember his eyes. His warm, loving, lusting eyes.

And then…


Renee Walker remembered nothing more. She died at 8:59 a.m. with a sniper's bullet in her torso, and Jack's memory in her heart.