[Alias] [Jack, ensemble] Chances.
Title: Chances.
Author/ess: fan_elune
Series: Alias
Length: approx. 2,915 words, one shot
Character/pairing: Jack-centric, Sydney, Sark, Isabelle and Jack (the son), mentions of pretty much everyone
Rating/warnings: PG-13, spoilers for the season finale
Summary: (Spoilers in the rec.) Written for the Dearly Departed Alias Ficathon, with a request of Jack, to write him interacting with Isabelle and Little Jack, to have Sydney be surprised at something, and Weiss with a mohawk.
Oh, Jack. Who doesn’t love Jack. Uhm, so yeah, stupid season finale even though it did finally give some characters a happy ending or a ‘life goes on’, but…dot dot dot. Therefore, I’ll just let the fic do it - besides, Rambaldi makes everything more than possible. Jack lives through dreams and dreams and dreams, despite what he believes is the impossibility; but eventually, one has to wake up to reality.
The dream sequences really make this fic. They’re just the right mix of lyrical and evocative, a state of matter that might be somewhere between liquid and not-solid; they have all the right not-quite-right transitions to resemble real dreams and nightmares, yet are still grounded just enough in some sort of reality. Some of them will really just get you. And ah, Sark’s involvement, and finally Sydney and her children - Isabelle in particular - everything’s just incredibly true to character, amusing or baffling in all the right ways. I only wish I knew enough to understand the mystery of who that man is in the middle part, but otherwise. The author just knows how to write those trippy dreams so, so well, and a Jack story like this can be my personal canon any day.
Preview:
Her eyes are everything. Soft and warm and he knows, with the certainty of one who has lived this dream before, of the cold, hard edges hidden under the velvet love.
There might be a toaster, or it might be another time. He sinks in her arms all the same, because he did, and will again, sinks in her arms and expects to drown, expects the love and the lies to stifle him, expects a pillow pressed on his face, expects a hand over his mouth and fingers pressing his nostrils closed, expects a slash across his windpipe.
Instead, he gets a lie. He gets the warmth, the softness, he gets words spun like silk and it's a web he'll always get caught in. He gets fate.
Author/ess: fan_elune
Series: Alias
Length: approx. 2,915 words, one shot
Character/pairing: Jack-centric, Sydney, Sark, Isabelle and Jack (the son), mentions of pretty much everyone
Rating/warnings: PG-13, spoilers for the season finale
Summary: (Spoilers in the rec.) Written for the Dearly Departed Alias Ficathon, with a request of Jack, to write him interacting with Isabelle and Little Jack, to have Sydney be surprised at something, and Weiss with a mohawk.
Oh, Jack. Who doesn’t love Jack. Uhm, so yeah, stupid season finale even though it did finally give some characters a happy ending or a ‘life goes on’, but…dot dot dot. Therefore, I’ll just let the fic do it - besides, Rambaldi makes everything more than possible. Jack lives through dreams and dreams and dreams, despite what he believes is the impossibility; but eventually, one has to wake up to reality.
The dream sequences really make this fic. They’re just the right mix of lyrical and evocative, a state of matter that might be somewhere between liquid and not-solid; they have all the right not-quite-right transitions to resemble real dreams and nightmares, yet are still grounded just enough in some sort of reality. Some of them will really just get you. And ah, Sark’s involvement, and finally Sydney and her children - Isabelle in particular - everything’s just incredibly true to character, amusing or baffling in all the right ways. I only wish I knew enough to understand the mystery of who that man is in the middle part, but otherwise. The author just knows how to write those trippy dreams so, so well, and a Jack story like this can be my personal canon any day.
Preview:
Her eyes are everything. Soft and warm and he knows, with the certainty of one who has lived this dream before, of the cold, hard edges hidden under the velvet love.
There might be a toaster, or it might be another time. He sinks in her arms all the same, because he did, and will again, sinks in her arms and expects to drown, expects the love and the lies to stifle him, expects a pillow pressed on his face, expects a hand over his mouth and fingers pressing his nostrils closed, expects a slash across his windpipe.
Instead, he gets a lie. He gets the warmth, the softness, he gets words spun like silk and it's a web he'll always get caught in. He gets fate.