The Insomniac
Title: The Insomniac
Summary: It's always her he dreams (has nightmares) about. Juliet.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Jack, sprinkled with Jack/Juliet.
Spoilers: Season 4
Words: 600
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. Pity.
A/N: Whoa, look! Not a Daniel/Charlotte fic. Written for lostfichallenge #84: a different point of view.
He awakens, shaking and sweating, to find himself lying on the tile floor of his dirty kitchen, surrounded by crumpled maps and beer bottles.
It's always her he dreams (has nightmares) about. Juliet. Tonight is no different.
It's still dark outside and the clock above the cabinet reads one. He won't be getting any more sleep, he knows that, so he takes his keys and Oceanic Airlines golden pass and walks out the door.
-
One of the flight attendants has curly blond hair. Like Juliet... in those old photos he finds of her, included with articles about "Dr. Burke's Fertility Research."
When she's turned around, he can pretend she's Juliet. Not some flight attendant who offers him agitated smiles and cheap drinks.
Jack really likes to pretend.
-
He stops at a bottle shop just outside of Sydney and buys a bottle of what he soon realizes is bitter, nasty red wine. Nonetheless, it’s empty by the time Australia's east coast comes into view.
The sun's just reaching up from beneath the horizon, revealing white sand and blue water and nobody but Jack.
There's a long pier, lined on one side with empty restaurants and souvenir shops. Jack walks past all of this to the far end and leans on the splintering wooden rail, looking down to the crashing waves below. He pulls the wine receipt from his back pocket. An entire intercontinental flight and all he could think to write was, I'm sorry, Juliet. -Jack.
He should be sorry for everyone. He is (but he's just extra sorry for her).
A message in a bottle. Jack chuckles at the thought.
How's it going to get to her? Fate? He smiles, bitter and hollow and humorless.
Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? They should be sending us messages in their... their DHARMA rum bottles.
He's laughing now, delirious, as he drops the note inside the bottle and throws it out for the ocean. He watches as it disappears into the skyline before he drops his forehead to the railing. One, two...
In one fluid motion, Jack throws both legs over the rail and lets himself fall.
-
The waves are rhythmic, back and forth, up and down-the only sure and steady thing he's had in so long. And soon, it's the only thing left. Once his head goes under, there's just nothing. No one. Never again.
-
She's fighting a grin, losing. And, God, it's so beautiful.
Juliet.
She tilts her head, part her lips and all he wants is to hear her voice.
"A beard, Jack?"
-
He awakens, burning and stinging, to find himself on the sand. The water just barely reaches his toes. The sun has moved closer to the midpoint in the sky, but his watch is broken-waterlogged, of course-so he can't really tell how long he's been lying here.
It takes him a minute to recollect what happened... and how is he still alive? Am I still alive?
Then he sees the pier. And the bottle.
Yes, that's the bottle. It lies at the shore, water driving it farther up the beach. Jack runs to it, anger boiling up inside him already. He fishes the note out, pink around the edges from the little wine he'd left in the bottle.
I'm sorry, Juliet. -Jack
He winces at the words, but pain turns to anger, and anger turns to broken glass and shredded words.
He has no control. He has nothing left.
-
On that fifteen hour flight back to Los Angeles, he stops denying what he'd already realized.
Apologies tucked away in wine bottles aren't good enough.
They have to go back.
Summary: It's always her he dreams (has nightmares) about. Juliet.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Jack, sprinkled with Jack/Juliet.
Spoilers: Season 4
Words: 600
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. Pity.
A/N: Whoa, look! Not a Daniel/Charlotte fic. Written for lostfichallenge #84: a different point of view.
He awakens, shaking and sweating, to find himself lying on the tile floor of his dirty kitchen, surrounded by crumpled maps and beer bottles.
It's always her he dreams (has nightmares) about. Juliet. Tonight is no different.
It's still dark outside and the clock above the cabinet reads one. He won't be getting any more sleep, he knows that, so he takes his keys and Oceanic Airlines golden pass and walks out the door.
-
One of the flight attendants has curly blond hair. Like Juliet... in those old photos he finds of her, included with articles about "Dr. Burke's Fertility Research."
When she's turned around, he can pretend she's Juliet. Not some flight attendant who offers him agitated smiles and cheap drinks.
Jack really likes to pretend.
-
He stops at a bottle shop just outside of Sydney and buys a bottle of what he soon realizes is bitter, nasty red wine. Nonetheless, it’s empty by the time Australia's east coast comes into view.
The sun's just reaching up from beneath the horizon, revealing white sand and blue water and nobody but Jack.
There's a long pier, lined on one side with empty restaurants and souvenir shops. Jack walks past all of this to the far end and leans on the splintering wooden rail, looking down to the crashing waves below. He pulls the wine receipt from his back pocket. An entire intercontinental flight and all he could think to write was, I'm sorry, Juliet. -Jack.
He should be sorry for everyone. He is (but he's just extra sorry for her).
A message in a bottle. Jack chuckles at the thought.
How's it going to get to her? Fate? He smiles, bitter and hollow and humorless.
Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? They should be sending us messages in their... their DHARMA rum bottles.
He's laughing now, delirious, as he drops the note inside the bottle and throws it out for the ocean. He watches as it disappears into the skyline before he drops his forehead to the railing. One, two...
In one fluid motion, Jack throws both legs over the rail and lets himself fall.
-
The waves are rhythmic, back and forth, up and down-the only sure and steady thing he's had in so long. And soon, it's the only thing left. Once his head goes under, there's just nothing. No one. Never again.
-
She's fighting a grin, losing. And, God, it's so beautiful.
Juliet.
She tilts her head, part her lips and all he wants is to hear her voice.
"A beard, Jack?"
-
He awakens, burning and stinging, to find himself on the sand. The water just barely reaches his toes. The sun has moved closer to the midpoint in the sky, but his watch is broken-waterlogged, of course-so he can't really tell how long he's been lying here.
It takes him a minute to recollect what happened... and how is he still alive? Am I still alive?
Then he sees the pier. And the bottle.
Yes, that's the bottle. It lies at the shore, water driving it farther up the beach. Jack runs to it, anger boiling up inside him already. He fishes the note out, pink around the edges from the little wine he'd left in the bottle.
I'm sorry, Juliet. -Jack
He winces at the words, but pain turns to anger, and anger turns to broken glass and shredded words.
He has no control. He has nothing left.
-
On that fifteen hour flight back to Los Angeles, he stops denying what he'd already realized.
Apologies tucked away in wine bottles aren't good enough.
They have to go back.