Lost Fic: mary shelley
mary shelley
for falseeeyelashes. juliet. jack/juliet. general spoilers. just five irreversible futures. 1008 words. pg.
home is across the way, still, in an airport, in Australia, in June, really June, with a group of people she’d rather not know.
-
you know, you know where you are with,
you know where you are with,
floor collapsing, falling, bouncing back
and one day, I'm gonna grow wings.
(radiohead) let down
1.
Home is across the way, still, in an airport, in Australia, in June, really June, with a group of people she’d rather not know; she’s thinking of her sister and her son, the hands that worked aimlessly over nights and nights because she loved them and only them.
“We should go back,” Jack murmurs, his fingers stretch against the arch of her neck and stay nervous; tap tap and slip, “Really.”
Her lips purse tightly, her mouth cutting, “Really, Jack?”
She ducks away from the maddening pace of his answer, sullen around his frown. To the window, instead, she stands and presses her forehead against the glass.
It’s really June.
-
Rachel doesn’t remember her.
This is how it works - it’s weeks on end, saying I’m Julie with her burning throat, on repetition as if it were a lie already and she, the stranger, was never who she really said she was. She thinks of the Island, too much, often lingers on the compound, on Ben in the distance.
She refuses to hear him, the slighting, a laugh: you see?
Her boy, her nephew, is Ben too, Benjamin in newspaper clippings and announcements and over irony, in preschool and champions over blocks and carrot cutting and books; oh, god, she’s thinking, oh god.
There’s always a message.
Jack, instead, after the telephone company: “I wasn’t ready for this.”
2.
If they are home -
It tastes like a year later, that sense of inevitability, it coincides with her move to Montana, to the mountains and deep.
She opens a clinic, a quiet one, for that sense of autonomy and really, if you catch her, she might admit it’s for the safety, a self-indulgent lie that she misses the place, that avenue of control was more of a luxury than she liked it to be.
He still finds her.
-
Starting once a month, twice, with her name over a folded envelope, she still lets him find her with a passing amusement.
She never answers the letters. Never says hi or hello or how are things because it slips and shelters more animosity than she means, her amusement at his persistence spinning around. It lingers when she remembers the glass, slipping between them, the feel under her hands.
Again, the metaphor is there, the control. And she almost laughs because it’s Rachel again, her sister and the reminder -
She doesn’t need it anymore.
“Idiot,” she murmurs.
When he does arrive, Jack is drinking with tiny flasks, a chain of airport vodkas and a grin, boyish and mad, all they, they ever expected to be. His eyes are wild and she’s licking the inside of her mouth.
“Brought an extra bottle,” he lifts his hand, at the door, before she thinks of letting him in, “you and me.”
She shakes her head. For the closed door.
-
Kate calls, the peak of a new year.
“The funeral’s in two Sundays.”
3.
Jack is sick.
There is sweat over the corner of his mouth, breathing snapping against her palm. She isn’t thinking, thinking about the boat, seven paces away and home, to recount and oh, well, maybe there’s a chance -
She has no idea, no idea what’s going on, where the bulk of hesitation is coming from; Juliet, Juliet, there is always a song, a country song, a love song. And god, she’s turning into Rachel but Rachel isn’t here, Rachel is a success case, a baby boy with their Dad’s eyes, pretty eyes and in their family home.
“Go,” he laughs a wet sigh.
There’s a sense of nothing and everything, craning over the sound of his voice. The ship, in the distance, the survivors are yelling, yelling like prisoners, although, there’s a sense of something and she still hates them, but it could be true.
“I am not losing my mind,” she growls her hands into fists, her hands over his face, his chest, and working, working, working because that, that’s what she does.
She thinks she hears laughter, the horn, and yes, it’s a boat and going home is frozen in her head. She could go, she could go and grab her bags and leave him here. It’s self-indulgent, the thought, but nothing always goes nowhere.
Jack’s mouth shapes and there’s another laugh, his louder than the rest, in series, in a pair, and Juliet’s just dizzy.
She’s so fucking dizzy.
“You know,” he continues, his fingers curling around her hand. They’re tighter, “It’s not a big secret or anything, Julie.”
She hates Julie.
“You’re sick too.”
Her eyes are closing.
-
“How many?”
Kate and Sayid, standing by originality, a plan with a few.
“Eight,” she says quietly, “Sawyer counted twice. The boat’s enough for eight.”
Nods are grim.
4.
There are calendars in the village.
They believe in civility, as if it all were a game, and this just a bunch of special kids, on a camping trip for all bouts of fun.
Jack’s take to the dates, since he’s been here unmoving, marking them as if they were just tallies on a wall. She finds it funny; it’s a quirk, she can tell, and she more than just amused, she’s curious.
More planes will crash. Ships and things.
“You think they’re safe?” The moment’s almost endearing.
Juliet thinks instead of smoke and mirrors, the fires on the beach, and the few, the few that Ben decided to give away, back to the world.
“No,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
It’s not the plan.
5.
Ben is laughing.
“Hope is a funny thing,” he says to her idly, of course, “and hope they can have for just a little bit, I think.”
And the story is simple, she follows; she’s imagined realities like them, her fingers pressing against the screen as she watches Jack, his name, pace and curse and, oh, the good of mankind. Isn’t that how the boys play?
“Can we keep him?”
Her voice is low, a little curious. “For just a little longer?”
(they’ll never meet)
+
for falseeeyelashes. juliet. jack/juliet. general spoilers. just five irreversible futures. 1008 words. pg.
home is across the way, still, in an airport, in Australia, in June, really June, with a group of people she’d rather not know.
-
you know, you know where you are with,
you know where you are with,
floor collapsing, falling, bouncing back
and one day, I'm gonna grow wings.
(radiohead) let down
1.
Home is across the way, still, in an airport, in Australia, in June, really June, with a group of people she’d rather not know; she’s thinking of her sister and her son, the hands that worked aimlessly over nights and nights because she loved them and only them.
“We should go back,” Jack murmurs, his fingers stretch against the arch of her neck and stay nervous; tap tap and slip, “Really.”
Her lips purse tightly, her mouth cutting, “Really, Jack?”
She ducks away from the maddening pace of his answer, sullen around his frown. To the window, instead, she stands and presses her forehead against the glass.
It’s really June.
-
Rachel doesn’t remember her.
This is how it works - it’s weeks on end, saying I’m Julie with her burning throat, on repetition as if it were a lie already and she, the stranger, was never who she really said she was. She thinks of the Island, too much, often lingers on the compound, on Ben in the distance.
She refuses to hear him, the slighting, a laugh: you see?
Her boy, her nephew, is Ben too, Benjamin in newspaper clippings and announcements and over irony, in preschool and champions over blocks and carrot cutting and books; oh, god, she’s thinking, oh god.
There’s always a message.
Jack, instead, after the telephone company: “I wasn’t ready for this.”
2.
If they are home -
It tastes like a year later, that sense of inevitability, it coincides with her move to Montana, to the mountains and deep.
She opens a clinic, a quiet one, for that sense of autonomy and really, if you catch her, she might admit it’s for the safety, a self-indulgent lie that she misses the place, that avenue of control was more of a luxury than she liked it to be.
He still finds her.
-
Starting once a month, twice, with her name over a folded envelope, she still lets him find her with a passing amusement.
She never answers the letters. Never says hi or hello or how are things because it slips and shelters more animosity than she means, her amusement at his persistence spinning around. It lingers when she remembers the glass, slipping between them, the feel under her hands.
Again, the metaphor is there, the control. And she almost laughs because it’s Rachel again, her sister and the reminder -
She doesn’t need it anymore.
“Idiot,” she murmurs.
When he does arrive, Jack is drinking with tiny flasks, a chain of airport vodkas and a grin, boyish and mad, all they, they ever expected to be. His eyes are wild and she’s licking the inside of her mouth.
“Brought an extra bottle,” he lifts his hand, at the door, before she thinks of letting him in, “you and me.”
She shakes her head. For the closed door.
-
Kate calls, the peak of a new year.
“The funeral’s in two Sundays.”
3.
Jack is sick.
There is sweat over the corner of his mouth, breathing snapping against her palm. She isn’t thinking, thinking about the boat, seven paces away and home, to recount and oh, well, maybe there’s a chance -
She has no idea, no idea what’s going on, where the bulk of hesitation is coming from; Juliet, Juliet, there is always a song, a country song, a love song. And god, she’s turning into Rachel but Rachel isn’t here, Rachel is a success case, a baby boy with their Dad’s eyes, pretty eyes and in their family home.
“Go,” he laughs a wet sigh.
There’s a sense of nothing and everything, craning over the sound of his voice. The ship, in the distance, the survivors are yelling, yelling like prisoners, although, there’s a sense of something and she still hates them, but it could be true.
“I am not losing my mind,” she growls her hands into fists, her hands over his face, his chest, and working, working, working because that, that’s what she does.
She thinks she hears laughter, the horn, and yes, it’s a boat and going home is frozen in her head. She could go, she could go and grab her bags and leave him here. It’s self-indulgent, the thought, but nothing always goes nowhere.
Jack’s mouth shapes and there’s another laugh, his louder than the rest, in series, in a pair, and Juliet’s just dizzy.
She’s so fucking dizzy.
“You know,” he continues, his fingers curling around her hand. They’re tighter, “It’s not a big secret or anything, Julie.”
She hates Julie.
“You’re sick too.”
Her eyes are closing.
-
“How many?”
Kate and Sayid, standing by originality, a plan with a few.
“Eight,” she says quietly, “Sawyer counted twice. The boat’s enough for eight.”
Nods are grim.
4.
There are calendars in the village.
They believe in civility, as if it all were a game, and this just a bunch of special kids, on a camping trip for all bouts of fun.
Jack’s take to the dates, since he’s been here unmoving, marking them as if they were just tallies on a wall. She finds it funny; it’s a quirk, she can tell, and she more than just amused, she’s curious.
More planes will crash. Ships and things.
“You think they’re safe?” The moment’s almost endearing.
Juliet thinks instead of smoke and mirrors, the fires on the beach, and the few, the few that Ben decided to give away, back to the world.
“No,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
It’s not the plan.
5.
Ben is laughing.
“Hope is a funny thing,” he says to her idly, of course, “and hope they can have for just a little bit, I think.”
And the story is simple, she follows; she’s imagined realities like them, her fingers pressing against the screen as she watches Jack, his name, pace and curse and, oh, the good of mankind. Isn’t that how the boys play?
“Can we keep him?”
Her voice is low, a little curious. “For just a little longer?”
(they’ll never meet)
+