Lost fic: Vieux Carre * Part IV [historical AU]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: Word count, 1095. It's a short one.
One Two Three
Vieux Carre
Chapter 4
by eponine119
Chapter four
The day his father was interred was a beautiful day. A warm wind blew and the sky overhead was a shade so brilliant and intense it threatened to blind or drive mad anyone who looked up at it too long. Not at all the sort of day one envisioned for a somber occasion.
They gathered, the lot of them, his father's friends and colleagues and acquaintances. Too many people for the close-packed city cemetery to hold. Jack stood by his mother's side, knowing that she hated for her husband to be buried here, in their adopted city. Never mind that for so many years it had been home.
His mother kept her eyes properly lowered, the demure widow, accepting condolences and not raising her voice. Jack couldn't keep himself from looking away, looking anywhere but at the crypt. Gathered close around them were people he knew. On the outskirts of the group were ones he didn't recognize. He found himself searching faces. For whom, he didn't know.
Until he saw her. Shiningly blonde, with blue eyes that echoed the sky overhead. His father's eyes. The girl's face was solemn, drawn in concentration. Jack looked at her, staring, trying to think what he could say to her. Part of him was glad she'd come. The rest of him panicked, his only thought that he had to keep her far, far away from his mother. If she had any notion…she'd been hurt enough by this.
The girl -- Jack couldn't think the words "my sister" although that's what she truly was -- seemed to feel his eyes on her. She blinked and glanced up, looking at him curiously. Her eyes were wide and innocent. For a moment he thought that she had no idea who he was. But then he saw the echo of his own panic flash across her face, and she turned with a graceful step to walk away.
Jack's hand fell heavily on his mother's shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said. The look she gave him was scathing, though she couldn't say anything to him in front of all these people. Later, if an explanation was required, and Jack was no longer a child so why should one be, he would blame grief. Grief was there, existing within him, held carefully in check until a time when he had fewer eyes upon him and fewer duties to attend to. He cut through the crowd after the girl.
He rounded the row of crypts where she'd gone, but the row was empty. Jack kept walking, driven to find her, but every lane was just as quiet. He sighed when he reached the cemetery gate. She'd disappeared. He didn't even know why he'd chased her, or what he would have said if he'd caught her. "I'm sorry," came to mind. Sorry for so much. He didn't even know her name.
Jack stood by the cemetery gate and rubbed his face with his hands. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for his return to the funeral and for what was to come: a long afternoon of receiving at home, of entertaining strangers by himself once his mother pronounced herself unfit for company and went up to her room. Jack had no such luxury. He allowed himself to long for the silent, uncomplicated loneliness of his house, and then he started back to his father's grave.
Movement caught the corner of his eye, a splash of black among the whitewashed tombs. Jack turned his head quickly to see a retreating shadow. He hurried among the rows now, trying to catch up, to get another look. It was probably another stray mourner, or someone come to lay offerings at the grave of someone long-dead. Jack didn't believe in ghosts.
He saw more of the man as he doubled back toward the gate. A splash of blond hair against sloping shoulders. A shot of adrenaline flowed through him, as Jack would have recognized him anywhere. Sawyer.
Jack broke into a run after him, but as he cleared the gate, he saw that the street was deserted. Jack sighed and bent double, breath scraping against his lungs. He didn't have enough air to shout, and if he had it wouldn't have done any good. He stood there, aching, for a long time, hoping the coward would come back and face him. But Sawyer was gone.
He saw his mother shaping a sharp reprimand as he slunk back to her side. It hurt to breathe as he stood beside her, his head down. She must have seen it, because now it was she put her hand on his arm, supporting him.
It wasn't an accident. Sawyer had come here to see him. Jack felt angry and frustrated that he'd run off without a word. Why bother to come at all? But as the hours wore on, understanding began to set in. Sawyer wanted a glimpse of him. Just to look, unobserved. Jack would have done the same thing, if he'd had the opportunity. To stand there, memorizing his features, remembering.
Except it had been Sawyer's choice. He'd been the one to leave. He wasn't entitled to regret, as far as Jack was concerned.
…
Sawyer went to Lafitte's after escaping the cemetery, desperately hoping the man who'd shot him would be there. There was no sign of him, so Sawyer anchored himself at the far end of the bar. He would drink until every part of his body became as liquid as the burn in the glass. Until he couldn't walk, couldn't see, until he joined the legion lying face-down in the mud of the street.
And then tomorrow it would hurt.
Somewhere along the way, he decided it wouldn't hurt enough, so he oozed to his feet. "I bet you," he said, those magical words. He won, and said them again, knowing that no drunken mark was this stupid; if he kept at it, they'd catch on eventually.
They brawled in the street. Sawyer hissed insults through the taste of his own blood, to keep the blows coming. When it was done, his eye was bruised and his lip was split and he thought maybe one of his ribs had given way but he was too drunk to tell.
He staggered home. In the boisterous street, Kate brushed by him. She had a man by the arm, a customer. Sawyer met her eyes and she turned her face away in disgust. Up in his room, he fell against his bed, beaten, and prayed he wouldn't dream of Jack. In vain.
End of part 4.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: Word count, 1095. It's a short one.
One Two Three
Vieux Carre
Chapter 4
by eponine119
Chapter four
The day his father was interred was a beautiful day. A warm wind blew and the sky overhead was a shade so brilliant and intense it threatened to blind or drive mad anyone who looked up at it too long. Not at all the sort of day one envisioned for a somber occasion.
They gathered, the lot of them, his father's friends and colleagues and acquaintances. Too many people for the close-packed city cemetery to hold. Jack stood by his mother's side, knowing that she hated for her husband to be buried here, in their adopted city. Never mind that for so many years it had been home.
His mother kept her eyes properly lowered, the demure widow, accepting condolences and not raising her voice. Jack couldn't keep himself from looking away, looking anywhere but at the crypt. Gathered close around them were people he knew. On the outskirts of the group were ones he didn't recognize. He found himself searching faces. For whom, he didn't know.
Until he saw her. Shiningly blonde, with blue eyes that echoed the sky overhead. His father's eyes. The girl's face was solemn, drawn in concentration. Jack looked at her, staring, trying to think what he could say to her. Part of him was glad she'd come. The rest of him panicked, his only thought that he had to keep her far, far away from his mother. If she had any notion…she'd been hurt enough by this.
The girl -- Jack couldn't think the words "my sister" although that's what she truly was -- seemed to feel his eyes on her. She blinked and glanced up, looking at him curiously. Her eyes were wide and innocent. For a moment he thought that she had no idea who he was. But then he saw the echo of his own panic flash across her face, and she turned with a graceful step to walk away.
Jack's hand fell heavily on his mother's shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said. The look she gave him was scathing, though she couldn't say anything to him in front of all these people. Later, if an explanation was required, and Jack was no longer a child so why should one be, he would blame grief. Grief was there, existing within him, held carefully in check until a time when he had fewer eyes upon him and fewer duties to attend to. He cut through the crowd after the girl.
He rounded the row of crypts where she'd gone, but the row was empty. Jack kept walking, driven to find her, but every lane was just as quiet. He sighed when he reached the cemetery gate. She'd disappeared. He didn't even know why he'd chased her, or what he would have said if he'd caught her. "I'm sorry," came to mind. Sorry for so much. He didn't even know her name.
Jack stood by the cemetery gate and rubbed his face with his hands. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for his return to the funeral and for what was to come: a long afternoon of receiving at home, of entertaining strangers by himself once his mother pronounced herself unfit for company and went up to her room. Jack had no such luxury. He allowed himself to long for the silent, uncomplicated loneliness of his house, and then he started back to his father's grave.
Movement caught the corner of his eye, a splash of black among the whitewashed tombs. Jack turned his head quickly to see a retreating shadow. He hurried among the rows now, trying to catch up, to get another look. It was probably another stray mourner, or someone come to lay offerings at the grave of someone long-dead. Jack didn't believe in ghosts.
He saw more of the man as he doubled back toward the gate. A splash of blond hair against sloping shoulders. A shot of adrenaline flowed through him, as Jack would have recognized him anywhere. Sawyer.
Jack broke into a run after him, but as he cleared the gate, he saw that the street was deserted. Jack sighed and bent double, breath scraping against his lungs. He didn't have enough air to shout, and if he had it wouldn't have done any good. He stood there, aching, for a long time, hoping the coward would come back and face him. But Sawyer was gone.
He saw his mother shaping a sharp reprimand as he slunk back to her side. It hurt to breathe as he stood beside her, his head down. She must have seen it, because now it was she put her hand on his arm, supporting him.
It wasn't an accident. Sawyer had come here to see him. Jack felt angry and frustrated that he'd run off without a word. Why bother to come at all? But as the hours wore on, understanding began to set in. Sawyer wanted a glimpse of him. Just to look, unobserved. Jack would have done the same thing, if he'd had the opportunity. To stand there, memorizing his features, remembering.
Except it had been Sawyer's choice. He'd been the one to leave. He wasn't entitled to regret, as far as Jack was concerned.
…
Sawyer went to Lafitte's after escaping the cemetery, desperately hoping the man who'd shot him would be there. There was no sign of him, so Sawyer anchored himself at the far end of the bar. He would drink until every part of his body became as liquid as the burn in the glass. Until he couldn't walk, couldn't see, until he joined the legion lying face-down in the mud of the street.
And then tomorrow it would hurt.
Somewhere along the way, he decided it wouldn't hurt enough, so he oozed to his feet. "I bet you," he said, those magical words. He won, and said them again, knowing that no drunken mark was this stupid; if he kept at it, they'd catch on eventually.
They brawled in the street. Sawyer hissed insults through the taste of his own blood, to keep the blows coming. When it was done, his eye was bruised and his lip was split and he thought maybe one of his ribs had given way but he was too drunk to tell.
He staggered home. In the boisterous street, Kate brushed by him. She had a man by the arm, a customer. Sawyer met her eyes and she turned her face away in disgust. Up in his room, he fell against his bed, beaten, and prayed he wouldn't dream of Jack. In vain.
End of part 4.