Fic: halfway between the start and the end (down the 101)
halfway between the start and the end (down the 101)
lost, alex/richard (+ben, karl) - pg-13
word count: 1,105(!)
general season 3 spoilers
later, she falls asleep against him, head on his chest, easy breathing.
the radio’s on soft, a song about tangerines and shakesphere and cereal boxes (it’s all in your imagination, dear).
note: I am so intensely proud of this. It was a planned outline but still came out spontaneous. It's actually pretty freaking long too! I'm very proud. Dedicated to skinny_bacon, my awesome Richard/Alex buddy.
::
“the Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave unto him, to shew unto his servants things which must shortly come to pass; and he sent and signified it by his angel unto his servant John. who bore record of the word of God, and of the testimony of Jesus Christ, and of all things that he saw. blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand.” ~ Revelation 1:1-3
::
Ben doesn’t come out much anymore. He talks in pronouns and metaphors. he’s not really the leader anymore (let’s not fool ourselves; he never really was).
he broaches the subject in the dialect, “She said it was the only way.” (that’s a name no one says anymore. erase the traitors and treason from their tongues).
Ben jerks his head to the side, a nod and a shake.
“I’ll keep her safe. You know it yourself; this is how it’s supposed it be.”
::
she’s older now. hard lines on her face, around her eyes from squinting into the sun. lighter hair and she has pains in her back from the hard labor.
he shows up while she’s away from camp. “Hi, Alex.”
there’s something strange in the air, like dust or pieces of history, filtered by sunlight. she drops her bag and stalks forward. “Hi.” (narrow eyes that say, I still don’t really trust you)
“do you want to take a trip with me, Alex?” (here’s something to remember: he asks, doesn’t demand)
maybe it’s the heat or something about the man in front of her or that she’s tired of having sand under her fingernails and between her toes or tiptoeing around subjects with Karl.
she’s wonders how long it will take for them to realize she’s not there.
::
driving down the 101, windows open with the wind; forehead against the cool glass, soaking up the rain (she’s still a child inside).
he buys her a black dress in Seattle. “can we go dancing?” there’s sweat across her collarbone and hair sticking to her back and his hands on sharp hips.
they stop in quaint little beach towns, sometimes cookie cutter motels, sometimes in the car.
she’s frustrated with him most of the time. the question is always the same (“where are we going?”), but the answer is always different too (“Portland”, “Baja”, “to meet someone new”, “to bring someone back home”)
(are you ready for a turning point?)
::
he notices she talks about the island the same way her father does. “he did it because he didn’t want him to get me pregnant.”
“I know.”
“it wouldn’t have happened. i wouldn’t have let it happen.”
“I know.”
::
‘fed up’ is about the right word for it.
there’s sea air coating her lungs, it’s just like home. sleeping in the car again, somewhere down the coast (halfway between the start and the end)
she slides over him, one fluid motion, and shifts her hips another inch into his . he’s wide awake now, no reaction except for light hands on her skinny sides and those same dark eyes.
“tell me.” there’s the slip-up; neither of them are very good with demands. adverse reactions rooted in bitter history.
she’s got big, wide eyes staring him down (reminds him of another place in time), but now’s not the time for crystal clear answers or simplifying responses.
he moves his hands and now one’s trapped in a knot of her hair and another is splayed across her hip and her head dips forward enough that he kisses the corner of her mouth.
a moment of uncertainty, nearly imperceptible. but she still responds, open mouthed and with frantic fingers working at the collar of his shirt.
slippery slope they’re on. her t-shirt comes off and his mouth skims between her breasts, counting each rib with his tongue, tasting the sweat on her stomach.
her hands are at his jeans and his skid up her thighs, under her skirt.
there’s a second. breath hitched, hips rise and fall. there’s a gasp and grinding teeth, another kiss a finally a slow rocking rhythm.
later, she falls asleep against him, head on his chest, easy breathing.
the radio’s on soft, a song about tangerines and shakesphere and cereal boxes (it’s all in your imagination, dear).
::
grey office building, shiny silver numbers hanging off the side. she waits for 56 minutes in an uncomfortable chair.
a nervous looking boy exits the room first, keeps his eyes down and walks away with quick, deft steps.
he comes out next, shake of his head and they’re out together too.
(ask the attendant at the desk: they look like a pair, with dark sunglasses and dark hair; fingers twined together as well, feet in matching steps. oh yes, they look like a pair).
::
sunset is streaked with red over the ocean and she’s sick by the side of the highway. he holds her hair back and kisses her forehead when she’s done.
“alex, are you ready to go home?”
it’s raining hard on mulholland; echoes on the ocean, the cliffs. tells parallel stories of tragic little lives.
::
she’s not a heartless girl, no matter what they say.
“hi karl.” she visits once, at dusk.
there’s the news but no congratulations. guilt, anger, wonder and sadness, fear and only then maybe a touch of happiness.
“I have to go now.”
::
there’s a station in the jungle. tiny ghosts call out to her, a pale pink ball of yarn bounces against her foot (concentrates harder on the arm around her waste).
baby, baby, sweet little thing.
“it’s a girl.”
::
she sleeps on her side, his arm pinned underneath her. steady breaths mix with the hum of a refrigerator (back at home). a pattern of similar nights until there’s a sharp gasp and frightened eyes.
baby evelyn is born with a thick head of dark hair and too long eyelashes kissing pale cheeks.
here’s tragic irony for you. Ben dies within the very hour.
::
she sings in French to her daughter, songs taught to her a decade and a half too late (somehow, she’s always there right before eve starts to cry)
it’s summer in their world now. hot nights and no sleep. there’s a jazz record spinning in the next room, volume turned way down.
she whispers, asks one more time, “please, tell me why nothing changes?”
and so he does, and his words scratch down her throat and burning tears drip to make a dark stain on white sheets.
fin.
lost, alex/richard (+ben, karl) - pg-13
word count: 1,105(!)
general season 3 spoilers
later, she falls asleep against him, head on his chest, easy breathing.
the radio’s on soft, a song about tangerines and shakesphere and cereal boxes (it’s all in your imagination, dear).
note: I am so intensely proud of this. It was a planned outline but still came out spontaneous. It's actually pretty freaking long too! I'm very proud. Dedicated to skinny_bacon, my awesome Richard/Alex buddy.
::
“the Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave unto him, to shew unto his servants things which must shortly come to pass; and he sent and signified it by his angel unto his servant John. who bore record of the word of God, and of the testimony of Jesus Christ, and of all things that he saw. blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand.” ~ Revelation 1:1-3
::
Ben doesn’t come out much anymore. He talks in pronouns and metaphors. he’s not really the leader anymore (let’s not fool ourselves; he never really was).
he broaches the subject in the dialect, “She said it was the only way.” (that’s a name no one says anymore. erase the traitors and treason from their tongues).
Ben jerks his head to the side, a nod and a shake.
“I’ll keep her safe. You know it yourself; this is how it’s supposed it be.”
::
she’s older now. hard lines on her face, around her eyes from squinting into the sun. lighter hair and she has pains in her back from the hard labor.
he shows up while she’s away from camp. “Hi, Alex.”
there’s something strange in the air, like dust or pieces of history, filtered by sunlight. she drops her bag and stalks forward. “Hi.” (narrow eyes that say, I still don’t really trust you)
“do you want to take a trip with me, Alex?” (here’s something to remember: he asks, doesn’t demand)
maybe it’s the heat or something about the man in front of her or that she’s tired of having sand under her fingernails and between her toes or tiptoeing around subjects with Karl.
she’s wonders how long it will take for them to realize she’s not there.
::
driving down the 101, windows open with the wind; forehead against the cool glass, soaking up the rain (she’s still a child inside).
he buys her a black dress in Seattle. “can we go dancing?” there’s sweat across her collarbone and hair sticking to her back and his hands on sharp hips.
they stop in quaint little beach towns, sometimes cookie cutter motels, sometimes in the car.
she’s frustrated with him most of the time. the question is always the same (“where are we going?”), but the answer is always different too (“Portland”, “Baja”, “to meet someone new”, “to bring someone back home”)
(are you ready for a turning point?)
::
he notices she talks about the island the same way her father does. “he did it because he didn’t want him to get me pregnant.”
“I know.”
“it wouldn’t have happened. i wouldn’t have let it happen.”
“I know.”
::
‘fed up’ is about the right word for it.
there’s sea air coating her lungs, it’s just like home. sleeping in the car again, somewhere down the coast (halfway between the start and the end)
she slides over him, one fluid motion, and shifts her hips another inch into his . he’s wide awake now, no reaction except for light hands on her skinny sides and those same dark eyes.
“tell me.” there’s the slip-up; neither of them are very good with demands. adverse reactions rooted in bitter history.
she’s got big, wide eyes staring him down (reminds him of another place in time), but now’s not the time for crystal clear answers or simplifying responses.
he moves his hands and now one’s trapped in a knot of her hair and another is splayed across her hip and her head dips forward enough that he kisses the corner of her mouth.
a moment of uncertainty, nearly imperceptible. but she still responds, open mouthed and with frantic fingers working at the collar of his shirt.
slippery slope they’re on. her t-shirt comes off and his mouth skims between her breasts, counting each rib with his tongue, tasting the sweat on her stomach.
her hands are at his jeans and his skid up her thighs, under her skirt.
there’s a second. breath hitched, hips rise and fall. there’s a gasp and grinding teeth, another kiss a finally a slow rocking rhythm.
later, she falls asleep against him, head on his chest, easy breathing.
the radio’s on soft, a song about tangerines and shakesphere and cereal boxes (it’s all in your imagination, dear).
::
grey office building, shiny silver numbers hanging off the side. she waits for 56 minutes in an uncomfortable chair.
a nervous looking boy exits the room first, keeps his eyes down and walks away with quick, deft steps.
he comes out next, shake of his head and they’re out together too.
(ask the attendant at the desk: they look like a pair, with dark sunglasses and dark hair; fingers twined together as well, feet in matching steps. oh yes, they look like a pair).
::
sunset is streaked with red over the ocean and she’s sick by the side of the highway. he holds her hair back and kisses her forehead when she’s done.
“alex, are you ready to go home?”
it’s raining hard on mulholland; echoes on the ocean, the cliffs. tells parallel stories of tragic little lives.
::
she’s not a heartless girl, no matter what they say.
“hi karl.” she visits once, at dusk.
there’s the news but no congratulations. guilt, anger, wonder and sadness, fear and only then maybe a touch of happiness.
“I have to go now.”
::
there’s a station in the jungle. tiny ghosts call out to her, a pale pink ball of yarn bounces against her foot (concentrates harder on the arm around her waste).
baby, baby, sweet little thing.
“it’s a girl.”
::
she sleeps on her side, his arm pinned underneath her. steady breaths mix with the hum of a refrigerator (back at home). a pattern of similar nights until there’s a sharp gasp and frightened eyes.
baby evelyn is born with a thick head of dark hair and too long eyelashes kissing pale cheeks.
here’s tragic irony for you. Ben dies within the very hour.
::
she sings in French to her daughter, songs taught to her a decade and a half too late (somehow, she’s always there right before eve starts to cry)
it’s summer in their world now. hot nights and no sleep. there’s a jazz record spinning in the next room, volume turned way down.
she whispers, asks one more time, “please, tell me why nothing changes?”
and so he does, and his words scratch down her throat and burning tears drip to make a dark stain on white sheets.
fin.