fic: our hearts from iron
lost. summary: there you go, just a shooting exercise. richard, juliet (a little bit of implied richard/juliet). 1,526 words. rated: pg-13.
disclaimer: I do not own lost or these characters. As if you didn't know that...
a/n: written for joyyjpg and that_evening as part of the luau at lostsquee. prompt: Richard. It was also for tellshannon815 (prompt: the missing years), but since I already wrote that, we shall call her the honorary queen of this fic. No actual spoilers, but this will make more sense if you've watched S3, especially One of Us.
He pulls out the last two pistols and drops the bag on the grass.
"Am I in trouble here?" she asks. She tries it as wisecrack, but the way her voice gets small in the end gives her anxiety away.
"Absolutely not." He keeps a careful smile on his face; the subtle way she expresses herself, it's something he can appreciate.
"Ben didn't explain to you what we're doing?"
The corners of her mouth twitch, allowing a faint frown. "Nope. He just stopped by the lab, told me to take today off and that you would be waiting for me here."
Her hand travels up to touch the place in her forehead where drops of sweat are starting to form. It's not that it's special, it's just that after a while you start to notice the little things.
And Richard, he's had much more than a while.
"Oh, and he told me to wear comfortable clothes," Juliet adds. Her lips hold a bemused smile, like the man in question is a puzzle she tries to solve for amusement in her free time.
Perhaps she hasn't realized yet.
They wait almost fifteen minutes before anyone shows up.
Richard attempts to distract her, makes conversation about her work and what her first impressions of their little community have been. Juliet shuffles her feet, answers the questions with as few words as she can manage. She is polite but clearly uncomfortable and Richard knows she has been suspicious of him since he showed up at the morgue.
He shakes his head and smiles when she's not looking. When you put it like that, it's a wonder she's not even more apprehensive. She's unexpected in way; he'd thought he'd be bringing another Ben, genius and socially awkward, immersed in work. But that's not what she is, or at least it's not all she is.
From the corner of his eye, Richard sees Tom climbing up the hill, and nods once.
Juliet follows the movement, turns her head to watch the other man. He passes by them mumbling apologies for his lateness, starts to set up the plaque on the other side of the field.
"There you go, just a shooting exercise," Richard tells her, his head inclining slightly to the left.
Juliet's eyes run over the neatly set guns, across the field and rest at the target Tom has just finished putting in place. Her eyes are a darker blue than their usual and on her face there is a blank look.
"Have you ever handled a gun?" Richard asks her gently.
She turns her gaze back to him as though stepping out of a dream. "My dad loved them. When we lived in Colorado, he used to stay out in the mountains for days. My mother complained all the time he was gone. Sometimes he brought his dead animals into the house, and the smell..." she recounts bitterly. "I've always hated guns."
The manner in which she says it, her fixed stare; Richard regrets having to do this, but knows he'll regret much more later if she doesn't learn this.
The lesser evil and whatnot.
He picks up one of the shotguns and holds it out to her. Their skins brush as she takes it; her hand slides over the cold metal length with an appalled awe. She touches the scars in the wooden handle.
"We'll start with something easier."
He begins by telling her the qualities of firearms, barrel length, caliber, gauge, range. Talks about the difference between shotguns and handguns and when to use each.
In time, Richard notices that her eyes never quite meet his as he speaks.
Her aim isn't good, her hold is never straight enough or firm enough. Sometimes, Richard taps his fingers against his chin and wonders if she does it on purpose.
But her grip on the A-5 is always nervous, and so Richard pushes on.
He steps into her space, positions the gun on her shoulder and lingers perhaps just a little longer than he should. She lets him, stares forward like she hasn't noticed and shoots as soon as he steps back.
The bullet barely hits the board, grazes the left side. It's bad, but at least the force of the shot doesn't have her stumbling back anymore.
Juliet lets the shot gun fall from its position and turns her back to the board. Richard thinks he sees an appeasing grin on her face for a second before she blurts, "why you?"
"Excuse me?"
She rests one hand on the back of her neck. "In the eight months I've been here, I've seen what is an unusual number of people carrying weapons," Juliet starts delicately.
"Especially if you consider that this is a small research community in an isolated island," she continues. Her look gets harder, her eyes search his inquisitively letting him know this isn't something she's just thinking of now.
"But you, Richard, have not been one of those people," she finishes, her tone objective, certain.
He'd smile if he knew it wouldn't offend her. She's starting to lay herself out, confronting these strange facts he knows she picks up on, but for whatever reason chooses to ignore. He can tell she's been gathering information like it's munition, but doesn't think she knows it herself yet. It causes unwanted admiration in his chest, rising gently with his breath.
"That's why I teach," he answers with a smile. "So I won't have to carry guns myself."
Her eyebrow lifts, she stands her guard. He steps toward her, puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes, propelling her body to turn around. She holds her gun up and allows him to adjust it, a habit by now.
"I also have more experience than everyone else," Richard adds quietly, and yes, that much is true.
Once, she shows up flushed, hair messy and cheeks tinted red.
"Sorry," she says cheerfully, a sated grin on her face, "I got held back at my therapy session."
He nods like he believes her.
That time Richard informs her that shotguns are more powerful and damaging. He tells her, they're used for hunting and for killing.
The shiver that runs down her spine sends one darting through his.
She tries out a semi-automatic and it suits her better; soon enough she's using it almost as if it were an extension of herself. He proudly lets her know this, and jokes that it's about time too, because Ben is starting to question whether or not she really needs this much time to learn.
Her reaction is not at all what he expects.
She becomes rigid, her eyes fill with water and tears threaten to run out.
"Maybe if he knew, if he knew how awful I was…" she says sadly and just like that it's not about guns anymore.
"I'm sorry." She turns her head away from him, her hand rising to cover her mouth.
Richard reaches into his shirt pocket to hand out a hanker-chief to her and she laughs a little when he handles it to her. You would have those, she seems to say.
He puts an arm around her gently. She's tall, their shoulders almost match in height. She lets her head fall on his, one hand run down his chest and rest at the curve of his stomach. There are no sobs, no quivers between them.
Richard doesn't try to comfort her because he can't when they both know the truth: he will never let you go.
They set up one last date, this time out in the jungle where she can practice on moving targets.
She's reluctant, even now, but will shake off it.
He lets her choose her weapon and she picks the A-5. Richard doesn't find it funny anymore that she would go for the one she found harder to master, he knows her by now.
Juliet takes the shotgun from him with cold confidence; she will never look at the hard metal with the fondness of a hunter, of a man who thinks this is sport. Richard won't either.
"Why do we need to know how to use guns, Richard?" she asks, just once. It's the only fact worth knowing, and she's been aware of it from the very first moment. He understands that, admires it. The way she expresses herself, the subtle way she holds herself back.
It's a moment; he considers telling her, and it's as far as it was ever going to go.
Instead, he throws her a fake whimsical smile. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, right?"
She looks at him hard, curls the fingers of one hand. The words feels wrong as they leave his mouth, words and sentences that came after his time always do.
"Expect the unexpected."
She rolls her eyes a little and shakes her head almost imperceptibly. There's a light breeze that shakes the leaves on the trees. Juliet sets the gun against her bone, closes a finger on the trigger, waits. A loud flock of birds is passing over them.
Her finger squeezes.
A few feet away, a bird falls.
disclaimer: I do not own lost or these characters. As if you didn't know that...
a/n: written for joyyjpg and that_evening as part of the luau at lostsquee. prompt: Richard. It was also for tellshannon815 (prompt: the missing years), but since I already wrote that, we shall call her the honorary queen of this fic. No actual spoilers, but this will make more sense if you've watched S3, especially One of Us.
He pulls out the last two pistols and drops the bag on the grass.
"Am I in trouble here?" she asks. She tries it as wisecrack, but the way her voice gets small in the end gives her anxiety away.
"Absolutely not." He keeps a careful smile on his face; the subtle way she expresses herself, it's something he can appreciate.
"Ben didn't explain to you what we're doing?"
The corners of her mouth twitch, allowing a faint frown. "Nope. He just stopped by the lab, told me to take today off and that you would be waiting for me here."
Her hand travels up to touch the place in her forehead where drops of sweat are starting to form. It's not that it's special, it's just that after a while you start to notice the little things.
And Richard, he's had much more than a while.
"Oh, and he told me to wear comfortable clothes," Juliet adds. Her lips hold a bemused smile, like the man in question is a puzzle she tries to solve for amusement in her free time.
Perhaps she hasn't realized yet.
They wait almost fifteen minutes before anyone shows up.
Richard attempts to distract her, makes conversation about her work and what her first impressions of their little community have been. Juliet shuffles her feet, answers the questions with as few words as she can manage. She is polite but clearly uncomfortable and Richard knows she has been suspicious of him since he showed up at the morgue.
He shakes his head and smiles when she's not looking. When you put it like that, it's a wonder she's not even more apprehensive. She's unexpected in way; he'd thought he'd be bringing another Ben, genius and socially awkward, immersed in work. But that's not what she is, or at least it's not all she is.
From the corner of his eye, Richard sees Tom climbing up the hill, and nods once.
Juliet follows the movement, turns her head to watch the other man. He passes by them mumbling apologies for his lateness, starts to set up the plaque on the other side of the field.
"There you go, just a shooting exercise," Richard tells her, his head inclining slightly to the left.
Juliet's eyes run over the neatly set guns, across the field and rest at the target Tom has just finished putting in place. Her eyes are a darker blue than their usual and on her face there is a blank look.
"Have you ever handled a gun?" Richard asks her gently.
She turns her gaze back to him as though stepping out of a dream. "My dad loved them. When we lived in Colorado, he used to stay out in the mountains for days. My mother complained all the time he was gone. Sometimes he brought his dead animals into the house, and the smell..." she recounts bitterly. "I've always hated guns."
The manner in which she says it, her fixed stare; Richard regrets having to do this, but knows he'll regret much more later if she doesn't learn this.
The lesser evil and whatnot.
He picks up one of the shotguns and holds it out to her. Their skins brush as she takes it; her hand slides over the cold metal length with an appalled awe. She touches the scars in the wooden handle.
"We'll start with something easier."
He begins by telling her the qualities of firearms, barrel length, caliber, gauge, range. Talks about the difference between shotguns and handguns and when to use each.
In time, Richard notices that her eyes never quite meet his as he speaks.
Her aim isn't good, her hold is never straight enough or firm enough. Sometimes, Richard taps his fingers against his chin and wonders if she does it on purpose.
But her grip on the A-5 is always nervous, and so Richard pushes on.
He steps into her space, positions the gun on her shoulder and lingers perhaps just a little longer than he should. She lets him, stares forward like she hasn't noticed and shoots as soon as he steps back.
The bullet barely hits the board, grazes the left side. It's bad, but at least the force of the shot doesn't have her stumbling back anymore.
Juliet lets the shot gun fall from its position and turns her back to the board. Richard thinks he sees an appeasing grin on her face for a second before she blurts, "why you?"
"Excuse me?"
She rests one hand on the back of her neck. "In the eight months I've been here, I've seen what is an unusual number of people carrying weapons," Juliet starts delicately.
"Especially if you consider that this is a small research community in an isolated island," she continues. Her look gets harder, her eyes search his inquisitively letting him know this isn't something she's just thinking of now.
"But you, Richard, have not been one of those people," she finishes, her tone objective, certain.
He'd smile if he knew it wouldn't offend her. She's starting to lay herself out, confronting these strange facts he knows she picks up on, but for whatever reason chooses to ignore. He can tell she's been gathering information like it's munition, but doesn't think she knows it herself yet. It causes unwanted admiration in his chest, rising gently with his breath.
"That's why I teach," he answers with a smile. "So I won't have to carry guns myself."
Her eyebrow lifts, she stands her guard. He steps toward her, puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes, propelling her body to turn around. She holds her gun up and allows him to adjust it, a habit by now.
"I also have more experience than everyone else," Richard adds quietly, and yes, that much is true.
Once, she shows up flushed, hair messy and cheeks tinted red.
"Sorry," she says cheerfully, a sated grin on her face, "I got held back at my therapy session."
He nods like he believes her.
That time Richard informs her that shotguns are more powerful and damaging. He tells her, they're used for hunting and for killing.
The shiver that runs down her spine sends one darting through his.
She tries out a semi-automatic and it suits her better; soon enough she's using it almost as if it were an extension of herself. He proudly lets her know this, and jokes that it's about time too, because Ben is starting to question whether or not she really needs this much time to learn.
Her reaction is not at all what he expects.
She becomes rigid, her eyes fill with water and tears threaten to run out.
"Maybe if he knew, if he knew how awful I was…" she says sadly and just like that it's not about guns anymore.
"I'm sorry." She turns her head away from him, her hand rising to cover her mouth.
Richard reaches into his shirt pocket to hand out a hanker-chief to her and she laughs a little when he handles it to her. You would have those, she seems to say.
He puts an arm around her gently. She's tall, their shoulders almost match in height. She lets her head fall on his, one hand run down his chest and rest at the curve of his stomach. There are no sobs, no quivers between them.
Richard doesn't try to comfort her because he can't when they both know the truth: he will never let you go.
They set up one last date, this time out in the jungle where she can practice on moving targets.
She's reluctant, even now, but will shake off it.
He lets her choose her weapon and she picks the A-5. Richard doesn't find it funny anymore that she would go for the one she found harder to master, he knows her by now.
Juliet takes the shotgun from him with cold confidence; she will never look at the hard metal with the fondness of a hunter, of a man who thinks this is sport. Richard won't either.
"Why do we need to know how to use guns, Richard?" she asks, just once. It's the only fact worth knowing, and she's been aware of it from the very first moment. He understands that, admires it. The way she expresses herself, the subtle way she holds herself back.
It's a moment; he considers telling her, and it's as far as it was ever going to go.
Instead, he throws her a fake whimsical smile. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, right?"
She looks at him hard, curls the fingers of one hand. The words feels wrong as they leave his mouth, words and sentences that came after his time always do.
"Expect the unexpected."
She rolls her eyes a little and shakes her head almost imperceptibly. There's a light breeze that shakes the leaves on the trees. Juliet sets the gun against her bone, closes a finger on the trigger, waits. A loud flock of birds is passing over them.
Her finger squeezes.
A few feet away, a bird falls.