Absolution
Title: Absolution
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Spoilers: Through Eggtown.
Summary: There are so many of her crimes for which she'll never be acquitted.
Note: For the Lost Femmeslash Fic Battle at lost_femmeslash. Prompt: Kate/Claire, remember (more friendshippy than slashy, though). Also for un_love_you #7: Prove it.
At first glance, it's a typical early-fall party for the wealthy: stiffly dressed men and women shuffle around tables of cocktails and hors d' oeuvres, leaving food mostly untouched on small plates as quiet conversation weaves in and out of the small clusters of the recently reacquainted. It's only if an outsider were to actually listen in on the conversations that he would discover this is anything but typical.
The recent return of the other survivors (along with their reports that no one else would be coming home) had necessitated today's reunion and memorial. It's September twenty-second, but it's been chosen as a symbolic date more than anything else. No one here, gathered in the spacious backyard Hurley's offered up for the event, knew those who died on that day. It's the days, weeks, months (years) that followed that they're remembering now.
Kate's glad to have Aaron here, glad to have his unending energy to distract her, glad to have the task of running after him, keeping track of where he is, snatching him from getting too close to the edge of the inground pool. She's never been more grateful for the little boy's social personality; they talk to him more than they do to her, crouch down in front of him and remark over how big he's gotten and how handsome he's going to grow up to be. And by the time he charms them with his long lashes and big blue eyes and mischievous little boy grin, they all seem to forget, for the moment, to settle their disapproving, slightly mistrustful gazes onto her, not the real mother. (Though she knows, they never really forget.)
But there are some things even Aaron can't distract her from. A hush falls over the crowd, in slow waves, and she looks up to see Hurley standing in front of the group, the tattered manifest held in his hands. Kate stops in her tracks, pulling the toddler to her, shushing his protests gently with a kiss to the side of his face.
The last time they'd done this, it'd been night, their faces illuminated only by the glow of the burning fuselage behind them. Now, the California sun is too bright and Hurley's voice is more halting than Claire's had been, reading the names of their dead. He doesn't give commentary this time, only pauses for several moments after each name. Silence as memorial.
He's reading the names of those who have chosen to stay, too: James Ford. Hurley looks up from the manifest then, corrects himself, with a bit more sorrow than he's given to most names. Sawyer. She can feel several pairs of eyes on her then, and she looks down, into the bright blond of Aaron's hair.
There are so many of her crimes for which she'll never be acquitted.
She'd expected the guilt, the regret associated with Sawyer's name. What she hadn't expected (though now, she's unsure why not) is the increasing tightness in her chest as Hurley keeps moving down the list. It's alphabetical, and he's approaching the Ls. She's starting to panic just slightly, covering Aaron's ears with her hands subconsciously, even though she knows the name won't mean anything when he hears it.
A hand is placed on her shoulder, gently. Kate startles in spite of herself, turns to see Sun standing next to her. “Here, let me take him for a while.” There's no accusations in the other woman's eyes, no disapproval in her sad smile. Just understanding, though that seems impossible and maybe Kate's imagining it. But she stops thinking and hands the little boy over carefully, thanking Sun with her eyes before she pushes away from the suffocating crowd.
Away from the press of people, Kate leans against the wall of what she thinks must be a storage shed of sorts, focusing on breathing slowly, willing the tightness in her chest to subside. But when she opens her eyes, it just becomes worse: She is standing there, in front of Kate, and all she can think is what she blurts out. “You're dead.”
The last time she'd seen Claire, she'd been cradling the other woman's bleeding body in her arms, the baby crying between them, Claire pleading that Kate take care of him for her. It's all she can think of now, how she'd had to scrub and scrub to clean the blood off her skin after Jack had finally pulled Claire's lifeless body from her embrace.
“You're dead,” she says again, now, but she's a little less sure and a little more frightened.
Claire takes a few steps towards her, nodding, a kind expression on her face. “I am.” Both women look in the direction of the backyard as Hurley's voice says her name, Claire Littleton. Claire nods again as if that proves it; she's dead. “But I'm also here.” Now she smiles, as if it's a private joke between her and Kate.
If it's a joke, Kate doesn't get it. She looks down at her hands, trembling. “I'm...hallucinating.” She must be. She's remembering Wayne's voice from Sawyer's body. Remembering a horse in a jungle. She's going crazy, again.
But Claire shakes her head. “You're not hallucinating, Kate. I'm dead, but I'm here.”
“No. No.” Kate's shaking her head too, but for an entirely different reason. “I...I watched you. Watched you...die.” She's beginning to panic again, her back pressed up against the shed, needing its stability to hold herself up. “You...you told me. To take care of him.”
“I know.” Claire steps even closer and Kate makes a sound, almost a whimper, and pushes away from the shed, pushes past the blond woman (ghost? specter? figment of imagination?).
Claire grabs her arm then, and the feeling of her fingers encircling Kate's wrist is so real, so alive, that Kate stops in her tracks. “Kate.” Claire pulls her into an embrace then, holding her tightly so all Kate can do is hold her right back, feeling flesh and breath and warmth and life.
Now it's Claire who's pushing them back against the shed, pushing her body against Kate's as if she's intending to soak all of Kate's life into herself. But Kate pushes back, needing to feel her friend, real and alive, against her, not slipping away as she'd last held her. Kate feels everything now, every curve and angle of Claire's body, breasts pressing against hers, stomachs and hips flat against each other, skin and muscles against hands and arms. She buries her face in Claire's long hair and this is real, this is life, even though she knows, somehow in her core, that it can't last.
“Thank you for taking care of him...of our son.” Kate hears it whispered in her ear, her absolution, and then she feels it all fall away, arms and hands and hips and hair, all gone until she opens her eyes and she's alone again.
On unsteady feet, Kate walks back to the yard, to the group of survivors. Wordlessly, she takes Aaron back from Sun and cradles him to her chest, holding him with arms that had held his mother just moments before. He cuddles into her, chubby fingers reaching for a strand of her hair, and she tips her head to whisper in his ear. “We'll remember her, Aaron. We'll remember.”
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Spoilers: Through Eggtown.
Summary: There are so many of her crimes for which she'll never be acquitted.
Note: For the Lost Femmeslash Fic Battle at lost_femmeslash. Prompt: Kate/Claire, remember (more friendshippy than slashy, though). Also for un_love_you #7: Prove it.
At first glance, it's a typical early-fall party for the wealthy: stiffly dressed men and women shuffle around tables of cocktails and hors d' oeuvres, leaving food mostly untouched on small plates as quiet conversation weaves in and out of the small clusters of the recently reacquainted. It's only if an outsider were to actually listen in on the conversations that he would discover this is anything but typical.
The recent return of the other survivors (along with their reports that no one else would be coming home) had necessitated today's reunion and memorial. It's September twenty-second, but it's been chosen as a symbolic date more than anything else. No one here, gathered in the spacious backyard Hurley's offered up for the event, knew those who died on that day. It's the days, weeks, months (years) that followed that they're remembering now.
Kate's glad to have Aaron here, glad to have his unending energy to distract her, glad to have the task of running after him, keeping track of where he is, snatching him from getting too close to the edge of the inground pool. She's never been more grateful for the little boy's social personality; they talk to him more than they do to her, crouch down in front of him and remark over how big he's gotten and how handsome he's going to grow up to be. And by the time he charms them with his long lashes and big blue eyes and mischievous little boy grin, they all seem to forget, for the moment, to settle their disapproving, slightly mistrustful gazes onto her, not the real mother. (Though she knows, they never really forget.)
But there are some things even Aaron can't distract her from. A hush falls over the crowd, in slow waves, and she looks up to see Hurley standing in front of the group, the tattered manifest held in his hands. Kate stops in her tracks, pulling the toddler to her, shushing his protests gently with a kiss to the side of his face.
The last time they'd done this, it'd been night, their faces illuminated only by the glow of the burning fuselage behind them. Now, the California sun is too bright and Hurley's voice is more halting than Claire's had been, reading the names of their dead. He doesn't give commentary this time, only pauses for several moments after each name. Silence as memorial.
He's reading the names of those who have chosen to stay, too: James Ford. Hurley looks up from the manifest then, corrects himself, with a bit more sorrow than he's given to most names. Sawyer. She can feel several pairs of eyes on her then, and she looks down, into the bright blond of Aaron's hair.
There are so many of her crimes for which she'll never be acquitted.
She'd expected the guilt, the regret associated with Sawyer's name. What she hadn't expected (though now, she's unsure why not) is the increasing tightness in her chest as Hurley keeps moving down the list. It's alphabetical, and he's approaching the Ls. She's starting to panic just slightly, covering Aaron's ears with her hands subconsciously, even though she knows the name won't mean anything when he hears it.
A hand is placed on her shoulder, gently. Kate startles in spite of herself, turns to see Sun standing next to her. “Here, let me take him for a while.” There's no accusations in the other woman's eyes, no disapproval in her sad smile. Just understanding, though that seems impossible and maybe Kate's imagining it. But she stops thinking and hands the little boy over carefully, thanking Sun with her eyes before she pushes away from the suffocating crowd.
Away from the press of people, Kate leans against the wall of what she thinks must be a storage shed of sorts, focusing on breathing slowly, willing the tightness in her chest to subside. But when she opens her eyes, it just becomes worse: She is standing there, in front of Kate, and all she can think is what she blurts out. “You're dead.”
The last time she'd seen Claire, she'd been cradling the other woman's bleeding body in her arms, the baby crying between them, Claire pleading that Kate take care of him for her. It's all she can think of now, how she'd had to scrub and scrub to clean the blood off her skin after Jack had finally pulled Claire's lifeless body from her embrace.
“You're dead,” she says again, now, but she's a little less sure and a little more frightened.
Claire takes a few steps towards her, nodding, a kind expression on her face. “I am.” Both women look in the direction of the backyard as Hurley's voice says her name, Claire Littleton. Claire nods again as if that proves it; she's dead. “But I'm also here.” Now she smiles, as if it's a private joke between her and Kate.
If it's a joke, Kate doesn't get it. She looks down at her hands, trembling. “I'm...hallucinating.” She must be. She's remembering Wayne's voice from Sawyer's body. Remembering a horse in a jungle. She's going crazy, again.
But Claire shakes her head. “You're not hallucinating, Kate. I'm dead, but I'm here.”
“No. No.” Kate's shaking her head too, but for an entirely different reason. “I...I watched you. Watched you...die.” She's beginning to panic again, her back pressed up against the shed, needing its stability to hold herself up. “You...you told me. To take care of him.”
“I know.” Claire steps even closer and Kate makes a sound, almost a whimper, and pushes away from the shed, pushes past the blond woman (ghost? specter? figment of imagination?).
Claire grabs her arm then, and the feeling of her fingers encircling Kate's wrist is so real, so alive, that Kate stops in her tracks. “Kate.” Claire pulls her into an embrace then, holding her tightly so all Kate can do is hold her right back, feeling flesh and breath and warmth and life.
Now it's Claire who's pushing them back against the shed, pushing her body against Kate's as if she's intending to soak all of Kate's life into herself. But Kate pushes back, needing to feel her friend, real and alive, against her, not slipping away as she'd last held her. Kate feels everything now, every curve and angle of Claire's body, breasts pressing against hers, stomachs and hips flat against each other, skin and muscles against hands and arms. She buries her face in Claire's long hair and this is real, this is life, even though she knows, somehow in her core, that it can't last.
“Thank you for taking care of him...of our son.” Kate hears it whispered in her ear, her absolution, and then she feels it all fall away, arms and hands and hips and hair, all gone until she opens her eyes and she's alone again.
On unsteady feet, Kate walks back to the yard, to the group of survivors. Wordlessly, she takes Aaron back from Sun and cradles him to her chest, holding him with arms that had held his mother just moments before. He cuddles into her, chubby fingers reaching for a strand of her hair, and she tips her head to whisper in his ear. “We'll remember her, Aaron. We'll remember.”