If We Make It Through December (we'll be fine)
Title: If We Make It Through December (we'll be fine)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: A couple months after SNBH. Jack and Kate. It's instinct and forgotten habit, more than anything, that make her press her lips to his.
Spoilers: Something Nice Back Home
Notes: This is, in equal parts, for bowlerhat_girl (who requested, and I quote, “Jack/Kate, you know, the fucked up way. S4?” for fic or treat 2009) and for lost_in_108 (challenge 12: cheer - and this is kind of the anti-cheer, but eh). The title comes from the Merle Haggard song of the same name.
It's 11pm, Christmas Eve, when he knocks on her door.
“Santa. Really.” He looks ridiculous, is what she thinks.
She watches him stumble over his words and tug at the oversized red suit before he gets it out: “It's Christmas. Can I see him?”
“He's sleeping. It's Christmas Eve. And no.”
He steps forward and leans in and it's instinct and forgotten habit, more than anything, that make her press her lips to his. She opens her mouth because that's what they do. He tastes like stale bourbon and sweat, and the fake white beard gets caught in her teeth.
“Merry Christmas, Kate.”
She closes the door.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: A couple months after SNBH. Jack and Kate. It's instinct and forgotten habit, more than anything, that make her press her lips to his.
Spoilers: Something Nice Back Home
Notes: This is, in equal parts, for bowlerhat_girl (who requested, and I quote, “Jack/Kate, you know, the fucked up way. S4?” for fic or treat 2009) and for lost_in_108 (challenge 12: cheer - and this is kind of the anti-cheer, but eh). The title comes from the Merle Haggard song of the same name.
It's 11pm, Christmas Eve, when he knocks on her door.
“Santa. Really.” He looks ridiculous, is what she thinks.
She watches him stumble over his words and tug at the oversized red suit before he gets it out: “It's Christmas. Can I see him?”
“He's sleeping. It's Christmas Eve. And no.”
He steps forward and leans in and it's instinct and forgotten habit, more than anything, that make her press her lips to his. She opens her mouth because that's what they do. He tastes like stale bourbon and sweat, and the fake white beard gets caught in her teeth.
“Merry Christmas, Kate.”
She closes the door.