Fic: Laughing With (1/1)
Title: Laughing With
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ensemble; Claire/Jack, Sayid/Nadia, Sun/Jin, Juliet/Goodwin
Word Count: 6,938
Summary: It’s hard to tell if you fixed it, when you can’t remember it being broken. For emiliglia, who requested “S6 speculation” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 18coda Prompt #3 - Canon. Warnings for suicidal thoughts, infidelity, and non-explicit incest between unknowing characters. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Regina Spektor.
Author’s Notes: For emiliglia: I really have no idea where this came from, aside from the inspiration of this song, but the best explanation I can give is that I had this thought about what might happen if what they set out to do actually did work. And while they may have “fixed” the situation, things still just weren’t right - Jack ending up with Claire, for instance, and the situations of Kate and Nadia. Overall, I wanted to create an S6 spec that dealt with the idea of there not being anything to fix, in the end - that messing with fate might just screw things up in different ways, and that if the universe course corrects along the way, there’s no outrunning destiny. Yeah. Not sure that worked. But it was the intent. And hopefully, you’ll enjoy it just a little bit anyway :)
Laughing With
Claire has always been the type who prefers not to be seen; as such, the spectacle of her awkwardly shuffling down the narrow aisle, holding her bag above the seats and tucking her stomach in so as not to catch against the tray tables, is enough to make her blood run hot and gather high in her cheeks.
She waddles a bit under the weight of her bags as she ambles along the segue and down to the gate, and she can barely see her toes at this point, so the fact that she stumbles where the fake walkway meets the real one is hardly surprising, except that it really is and she’s flailing a bit as she tries to grab hold of something to keep her balance.
“Easy,” the thing that she finds speaks softly, amused but kind, and she realizes belatedly that it’s a man she’s grabbed hold of, clutching at the lapels of his jacket, and he’s got his arm around her waist - or, what would be her waist again, someday - holding her steady and guiding her off to the side as the other passengers depart, and if she’s a little bit taken with him on the spot, well, she’s eight months pregnant, by God, and she hasn’t had a man spare her so much as a second glance in ages.
“You okay?” he asks as soon as she rights herself, taking her weight off of his steadying hands.
“I’m fine,” she assures him with a blustery shake of her head, feeling a little more than embarrassed by now, especially as the other disembarking passengers file awkwardly around her as they make their way towards baggage claim. “Just a bit clumsy, I guess.”
“Naw,” he flashes her a grin, bright against his dark hair, as he hikes his carryon up on his shoulder; “just getting your sea legs, still,” and they laugh, because her belly certainly feels like it belongs in the ocean, big as a whale. “How far along are you?” he asks, gesturing to her stomach, and she smiles, a hand resting on the prominent bump before she answers; “Eight months.”
He grins at her, and tells her that it’s no wonder she’s glowing, and Claire thinks she might just be a little bit in love.
He walks beside her, making polite conversation as they take the elevators down, waiting patiently when he could easily have finished the journey via the escalators already, or even on the stairs. He helps her into a cab after retrieving her luggage from the carousel, without even bothering to wait for his own to come round, and the little girl inside her, who still believes in fairy tales and rainbows and happily-ever-after, thinks maybe that means something.
___________________
He doesn’t live on a schedule, doesn’t play by the rules, and so when he decides that he wants a drink after wandering the city for a couple hours, the first bar he stumbles across becomes his island, his domain, and no one asks where the stream of C-notes he tosses across the counter come from; they just keep him well watered, and given the way he got spit out Down Under, that’s good enough for him.
The blonde man who saunters in looks like he’s had better days - his eyes are bloodshot, swollen underneath and bruised, tripping off a bad high; the way he holds the neck of his beer betraying the strain of hands that know when to be subtle, when to be strong.
He doesn’t remember when they start exchanging words between them, but afternoon bleeds into night and people start taking up the stools at the bar and before he even realizes what’s going on, the damn kid is perched next to him and they’re taking turns covering the rounds between the two of ‘em, and he suspects that if they keep up at the rate their going, he’s gonna have to spring for a cab for this fool, if the dwindling number of American dollars against a colorful collection of Her Majesty’s currency in the other man’s billfold is any indication.
“So,” the lanky blonde asks him between swallows; the damn limey’s matching him drink for drink, and if that’s not an indication of a sure fucking thing, then Sawyer’s never really deserved the title of con-man at all. “What d’you do for a living?”
Sawyer drains the last of his Killian’s, his grumble of a reply echoing around the mouth of the empty bottle; “‘m in real estate.”
“Think you could get a man a job?” Those worn and calloused fingers are peeling at the label of the beer, the glass sweating against rough palms, and Sawyer has to wonder what this kid’s story is, has to wonder why he cares.
“I’ll look into it for ya.”
That seems to satisfy the bastard. “Another shot?” he asks hopefully, and Sawyer knows better than anyone that there’s only one appropriate answer to that sort of proposition.
“What the hell.”
“My name’s Charlie,” the other man tips his shot glass indicatively towards Sawyer’s shoulder, but Sawyer can’t pay him back in kind - his throat’s already burning.
He tucks his chin into his chest and nods a little, his hair falling over his face as he glances Charlie’s way. “S’a good name.”
__________________
Boone Carlyle believes in destiny. Fuck yes, he believes in it, like he believes in air, and gravity, and that oil prices will continue to rise, if the incessant flicker of numbers, flashing ever-higher before him on the gas pump as he fills the Beemer, are any indication. He believes in destiny, and he believes that his apparently passed him by upon conception, as he’s become absolutely convinced that he was supposed to be a woman. Because he’s twenty-one years old, for fuck’s sake, and he still doesn’t know what it means to be a man.
His sister won’t speak to him - still pissed about the thing in Sydney, apparently, or else, the things in Sydney; his mother’s latest client has taken a particular liking to him and has offered generous monetary incentives (that he doesn’t even need) to accompany her every-fucking-where she goes, from the florist to the caterer to the goddamn spa where she wants to get her manicure, and of course, because he has no spine, he caves to her every whim; and Sabrina herself is being particularly ruthless with just how many dress designs need to be personally evaluated by him before they enter into selection for the clientele. And fuck all, he’s definitely not getting laid enough to be quite this pussy whipped.
That... thing in Sydney aside.
“Excuse me.” Boone looks up, disoriented for a moment before his eyes focus on the source of the question: a dark-skinned man standing near his trunk, the hose swinging gently between them. “Are you familiar with this area?”
Boone leans against the door, feeling the give of the tires as the whole thing shifts just a little, and he wishes he could have that kind of instantaneous impact on everything in his life, that sort of power. “Born and raised.”
“Then perhaps you can direct me.” The man’s voice is kind of interesting, accented in a strange but soothing way - he’s direct, and he’s commanding, but he’s unfailingly polite, and he’s everything Boone wishes he could be so he leans a little closer, careful that his hip doesn’t bump the nozzle, but cutting it pretty damn close. “I need to get to Irvine.”
And Boone knows where that is, so he grins, and tries not to look too eager, too pleased as the man thrusts a map in his direction and leans his head in to better hear over the squeal of tires and the incessant turning of engines. “Right,” Boone says, tracing a finger along the colored lines. “You’re gonna take a left at the end of this street here, see? And then you’ll merge right, make another left, get on Four-oh-Five South.”
He wraps up his directions with a vague “follow the signs,” and the man thanks him before walking back the way he must have came towards an idling Pontiac near the curb, and as Boone stops the nozzle and removes it from the tank, he wonders what’s in Irvine for all of three seconds before his phone vibrates in his jacket pocket. Swearing as a leftover drop of fuel falls on the toe of his shoe, he shoves the nozzle back into the pump and flips open his cell, squinting against the glare from the lights overhead to read the text message on his screen:
If u get arrested 4 talking 2 terrorists, i swear i’ll disown u.
He glances through the passenger-side window to where Shannon is sitting in the front seat, feet propped onto the dashboard and a newly-manicured fingernail tapping indicatively against the her phone as she locks her door against the retreating threat. Boone rolls his eyes at her and she raises an angry brow in response as he grabs at the receipt that curls off of the pump, breathing deeply, carefully, the fumes burning in his lungs.
His sister will be the death of him.
__________________
The couple who wants to adopt her baby are quite possibly the sweetest people she’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, and that alone rubs her just a little bit wrong. But Ethan and Bea, they’re more than accommodating, paying for her room at the Hilton Checkers for the full six months of her visa, and writing her a check for more money than she’s ever touched in her life, which would probably feel rather wrong given the circumstances, except that she doesn’t have the resources to support herself here, and beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And he’s a doctor, and she speaks more languages that Claire can even think of, and their name is Rom, and that sounds nice, she guesses - professional. Would look good on a check.
She wonders what they’ll name him.
They don’t come to visit her after the delivery, don’t say goodbye, and she only holds the little boy the one time, but she can’t help but cry for him, curled up around her flattened stomach and mourning the loss she brought upon herself.
They wheel her out of the hospital, and while she’s already called to have a taxi take her back to the Hilton, she feels extremely lonely on the curb as she waits for her cab. She stares blankly into the shrubbery that colors the metal and glass of the entrance, feeling desperately tired, and she barely even notices a person move in and out of her line of sight, ever closer, watching her until a hand rests on her shoulder and sends her heart into her throat, choking back a frightened squeak
“I thought that was you!” And that smile wakens her form her stupor, and his hand on her arm is somehow nicer, warmer now that she’s not stumbling off a plane with her stomach sticking out in front of her; it’s only now that it’s happened that she realizes she’d been hoping to see this man again.
“You’re a doctor?” she asks stupidly, noticing the scrubs and the coat for the first time, trying her damnedest not to think about where her eye-level hits on his body from where she’s sitting in her wheelchair.
He nods with a sort of bashful grin. “Just taking a breather,” he adds, looking up intently at the sky. “Rough day.”
“I’m sorry.” She looks away before he can glance back to meet her gaze, but she feels his eyes on her, hard and curious and vaguely concerned, and she can tell what he wants to know, and feels just a little bit special that he seems reluctant to ask - he is a doctor, after all, so it shouldn’t be too hard of a question.
“Adoption,” she says with a soft smile that only half-hides the lingering regret, and he seems to understand - it bleeds dark against the soft shine of his eyes.
“Ah, I see.” And he doesn’t judge her, which is a nice change, because while his eyes narrow, they’re narrowed at her, not at what she’s done. “It went well though?” he asks, genuinely worried after her, and it’s been too long since anyone was actually worried about little old Claire. “You’re feeling all right?”
“Well enough.”
His eyes wander to the lot beyond, the parking garages and the pavement. “Waiting for someone to pull the car up?” he asks, and the tone in his voice is hard to read - she can’t put her finger on it.
“The Checker Cab company, sure,” she replies with a gentle chuckle, shaking her head at his eyes as they widen, giving him permission to laugh in return. “It’s just me.”
“Just you in this big city?” he asks, a little incredulous, a little unsure. “Fresh out of the hospital?” And he takes a step towards her, just one, sizing her up and staring in a way that makes her feel both uncomfortable, and so very, very safe at the same exact time.
He fumbles in the pocket of his lab coat, thumbing for something specific before he extracts a small metal case. “Here,” he says, flipping it open and avoiding her eyes. “I, uh, I don’t normally do things like this, but,” and he takes out a single rectangle of thin card stock, flipping it over his finger like a dealer in Vegas. “In case you need anything,” he sums up, handing her his card, and as she takes it, fingering the sleek embossing of Jack Shephard, M.D., he lets his hand linger across her wrist, reading the typewriter-text of her name against her ID bracelet from the hospital.
“Claire,” and her name sounds sweet, coming off his lips; “Seriously. It can get lonely here without… anyone.”
It’s like he can read her mind, and while before she knows it he’s waving at her and disappearing through the automatic doors as they yawn open to swallow him up in a gasp of recycled air, she’s still smiling once he’s gone.
In the cab, she pulls her passport out of her purse and stares at the stamp from Immigration, studying the numbers; humming “Catch a Falling Star” and wondering idly what it would take to be able to stay here a little longer.
___________________
It’s a little bit hellish, really, but she’s nothing if not a survivor. She’d do what she had to. Always.
Ironically, it was that same mentality that landed her here in the first place. And honestly, she’s still kind of shocked that the plea held, but whatever. She’s just not entirely sure this was better than prison.
Her therapist, who insists on being called Libby instead of Doctor Something, tries real hard to be her friend. Tries to relate to her. Tells her that everyone has their ghosts, their demons; and Libby says that she’s been there, that she understands. And something in the shadow of the woman’s eyes makes her seem genuine beyond dispute, it’s just that Kate doesn’t give a shit.
Libby asks her about her childhood, asks her what she remembers. And while part of Kate really just wants to tell her that she was most certainly in her right mind when she torched that bastard in his fucking bed, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat, something else seizes her tongue and makes itself known.
“I remember, my dad had a boat,” she tells the blonde one day, because it’s something she’d forgotten, and it doesn’t really matter. Sam used to go sailing when he was on the coast with the service when she was really little, and while he’d sold the thing before her fifth birthday, she can recall one particularly hot summer spent outside Beaufort, and the sting of the water flying from their wake as they skidded along in line with the horizon.
Libby doesn’t analyze it, though, doesn’t dwell; just stares out the window for a minute, running her pen along the ridge of her palm as she murmurs wistfully to the treetops - “I had a boat once.”
Kate spends her free time indoors, exclusively, squeezing the hell out of a stress ball as she watches people with real problems play Connect Four and paint with the same five colors for hours on end. When one of her fellow inmates shuffles next to her - the tubby one who always has a bottle of water in his hand and a candy bar sticking out of his pocket - her fingernails break the surface of the squishy globe held in her palm.
“Hey,” the man says, and his is the kind of voice that your best friend in high school had - that casual, rough sort of sound that blends into the background and makes your chest feel buoyant.
Kate never had a best friend in high school.
“You look like you don’t want to be bothered,” he continues, and Kate fights a smirk because she’d been so very sure she was coming across as absolutely fucking personable; “but sometimes that means that people are lonely, when they look like they don’t want anyone to bother them, and then they really do want someone to bother them.” He pauses, and Kate can’t really be mad at him; she’s pretty sure it would be impossible to be mad at him. “Well, like, not bother them,” he corrects with a gesture of his hands that might have been grand if it weren’t for the way his arms sort of swung from his elbows, haphazard and floppy; “but you know, keep them company. Or something.”
He takes a long series of breaths before tacking on, like an apology, almost: “My therapist says I should try to make new friends.” And he stares out the window like she does, sometimes - like he knows that he’s only here because it’s just one cage versus any other. Every other.
“That’s funny,” she says, swallowing a grin as she brushes her matted curls out of her eyes; “so does mine.”
And it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to smile, because his is big and bright enough for the both of them. “Libby?” he asks knowingly, his eyes mischievous, and when he laughs at her little nod she can’t help but giggle, because this man is like infectious, inescapable joy, even in this place, this little hellhole where the paint peels and the windows are reinforced and people wear robes all fucking day.
She looks over at him, her smile still lingering as he thrusts a blue-and-yellow streak of something that catches the light in her direction. “Apollo bar?” he asks, expression hopeful, and even if she hated the things, she couldn’t have told him no.
“My name’s Hugo,” he introduces himself as she rips open the wrapper and takes a bite.
“Hi Hugo,” she says between chews, nuts cracking against her teeth and leaving chocolate stains on her gums; “I’m Kate.”
___________________
Michael, for all he’s ever wished otherwise, just isn’t cut out to be a father.
He tries, he really does. He buys whatever Walt wants for dinner, gives his dog free rein of the apartment, let’s him stay up until ten on school nights, but they just don’t click, really; they’re strangers, in the end, and they can’t seem to get past that.
They struggle through a whole year, with Michael working doubles and Walt essentially raising himself, and Walt joins every extracurricular he can possibly justify his involvement in, from the handball team to the Future Astrophysicists of America, in order to stay out of the house. So when Mittelos Bioscience offers Walt a place at their residential preparatory school in the Pacific Northwest, it’s a relief to both of them.
Vincent, though - he stays behind.
___________________
Claire sips at the coffee she fetched from the continental breakfast downstairs as she flips the pages of the Times, the heat of the mug making her fingers sweat and bleeding the ink into the newsprint. She opens her pay-as-you-go phone for the time, and sees that Jack’s texted her, asking if she’s interested in catching a late lunch when he finishes up at the hospital. She grins at the screen like a loon, like he can see it, and nods as she sends back: “Sure; know any good Chinese?” because she hasn’t had a decent stir fry since she vomited noodles in her second trimester, and because she’s pretty sure that catching lunch four times in one week means that there’s something more there besides a friendly face and a meal partner to avoid the single-take-out walk of shame.
She scans the paper, past the Wall Street babble and the obits, something prompting her to stop on a short blurb about a local truck driver who caused a thirty-two-car pile up in New York state that past weekend. It seems almost like a morbid human interest article, small details about some of the survivors, most of the victims. The family of four who flipped their SUV. The teenagers thrown from their car because of a defective restraint system. The Great Surviving Dane, just a puppy, that was all that remained of another family. The attorney and his assistant. The cab driver off duty. The state representative, up for re-election. The dentist and the new wife, just back from their honeymoon.
Her eyes are brought back to the same line of text, over and over, and she doesn’t understand why; she feels a sob gather in her chest, nudging at her throat, and she’s suddenly grateful for all this chaos and uncertainty, for everything - because while it hadn’t all happened the way she’d planned it, the way she’d wanted, she was still here to see it happen, nonetheless. And some people - good people; well, some just weren’t that lucky.
Bernard Nadler, a 57-year-old dentist from Buffalo, died on impact. His wife, Rose, remains in critical condition at Kenmore Mercy Hospital.
The world, she thinks, is unfair like that.
___________________
They’re found, of course. Eventually. The world is only so big, after all, and they can’t hide forever.
There’s a death, apparently, a murder at Mittelos Laboratories, somewhere south of them, and her husband was seen on security footage outside the establishment in the hours before the incident. And Sun knows, knows in her gut and because she knows her husband, that he had something to do with it. Knows in the way he smiles, genuine but tight, his eyes weighted with a real sympathy, an honest sorrow for the loss.
Officer Cortez is extremely pleasant about the entire affair. She waits to be invited into the house, sits politely on the settee and sips gently at the tea Sun offers, making small talk about some Southern con artist and his British sidekick that her department is trying to track down until Jin comes back from the restroom. She explains the situation without accusation, and when Jin admits to having been at Mittelos on business, Sun tenses as the officer seems to relax. Because while denial is the mark of the guilty, Sun knows that there is absolutely no defensible reason for Jin to have been there, had he been at work with the law firm where he’d told her he’d gotten a position weeks ago.
Jin shoos her away once the officer begins questioning him, and Sun notices that the woman, Cortez, looks impossibly tired. Sun wanders into the kitchen, cleaning the dishes and wiping the countertops before even that reveals itself as pointless, and she retreats to the bedroom, moves to sorting clothes for laundry. She separates her own first before moving on to Jin’s, and she does her best to swallow the bile burning her throat when she notices the speck of rusty red against the belt-loop on the khakis she’s turning inside out, tells herself it’s sauce of some sort, and does what she does best: looks the other way.
It’s harder to look away from what she finds in the front pocket, however: two pieces of paper folded impossibly small, too small for her to write off but too big for her to ignore, and her fingers are already smoothing them, tracing the truth off of them with trembling hands.
The first paper is white, worn, still damp with sweat in places and creased in many different patterns, folded and unfolded with nervous repetition. It’s plain, and it’s stark, and it doesn’t leave any room for interpretation, and it all makes Sun feel nauseous, feel faint:
Target: Noor Abed Jazeem
Operating as Nadia Shamar (ناديةشمار); Laboratory Technician - Mittelos
Laboratories
Irvine, California, USA
Priority Two; Terminate
Contact: 37°33′0″N 126°59′0″E
Below that, the yellow carbon copy of a purchase order gleams canary against the crumpled white, the scent of charcoal mingling with the sheer indifference of the report, issued in triplicate; the implications of it all settling like lead in her stomach:
Mittelos Bioscience, Irvine Research Facility
Services Rendered; Paik Heavy Industries (백중공업) for The
Widmore Corporation.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Kwon?”
Her hands are shaking, she can hear the way the paper flutters, loud as it crinkles under her grasp, and when she drops it hastily behind her, the guilty black marks of shame and smoke and death linger heavy on her fingerprints.
“Fine, thank you,” she manages to say softly as the policeman - Cortez’s partner, she assumes - walks slowly towards her from the open door. She keeps her eyes diverted as she folds her hands against her lap, surreptitiously rubbing her fingertips into her skirt in hopes of wiping them clean, of making this all go away.
She expects him to tell her that they’ll be in contact. That her ongoing cooperation is anticipated enough to be appreciated in advance, that any suspicious goings on, anything unusual should be reported to them immediately, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant, that she shouldn’t plan on leaving town without due notice, et cetera, et cetera. She’s heard it all before.
But when he leans towards her, blue eyes wide and almost somber, hand on her shoulder and lips close to her ear, he whispers something very different; something earnest and honest and for her alone: “Don’t forget that you love him. No matter what happens, never forget that.”
“Excuse me?” She watches him pull away, and where she must look absolutely bewildered, he looks calm, as if he knows what she’s trying to hide, sees her for every flaw she has and not only forgives it, but accepts it. Celebrates it. Knows it, and doesn’t mind.
She’s almost breathless with the sensation of it all as she asks him at the very last second, as he turns against the grain of the doorframe: “What did you say your name was?”
And the man, the strange and wonderful man that she knows, only doesn’t - he smiles. “I didn’t.”
She’s flipping through wedding pictures, trying to remember, doing her best not to forget, and when she sees him - unmistakably him - waiting in the receiving line after the ceremony, sandwiched in monochrome between colorful aunts from her side of the family.
Only then does she realize that he didn’t have a badge, or a gun.
___________________
Like all the great conquerers, John Locke falls because of Russia.
“Well played, Colonel,” Ronald says with an encouraging sort of smile and a quick pat on John’s shoulder as he folds up the game board. “Better luck next time.”
“Oh yes, Colonel Locke,” Randy mocks from behind them, grabbing a Mr. Cluck's Crunchy Combo box from the refrigerator and popping a cold potato wedge into his mouth, chewing around his words; “you’ll get ‘em next time.”
He has an extra fifteen minutes left of his lunch, so he takes it out of the office, even if he’s ten minutes late returning to work. Randy, of course, is waiting for him at his desk with a sneer at the bag tied to the side of his chair.
“Hardware, John?” he asks skeptically at the ACE logo rustling against the metal, banging back on the wheel when he moves. “The Colonel is a man of many talents, I see.” And he’s sick of this, he’s absolutely done with this man and this place, because the truth is that as much as he wants to believe that they can’t tell him what he can and cannot do, the fact remains that what they tell him is usually true. “Gonna climb up and patch the roof this weekend?” Randy cackles, derisive and sharp, as he retreats around a cubicle.
John tries his best not to waver, not to give into the bait, and instead focuses on what the extension cord in the bag is really for.
___________________
Claire doesn’t much care for shopping really, so much as people watching. She likes to go to the mall and browse sale racks and try on shoes she’ll never buy, but her favorite part of the experience is sitting at the edge of the food court with a medium smoothie and just taking everything in.
“Got the time, darlin’?” She didn’t even notice the man approach from behind, and his smile is a little to close to a lear for her liking, but he smells achingly good, and his voice is accented with the sun of the American South, and his eyes tell stories she doesn’t want to know, because they hurt just to look at, so she looks to her wrist and squints down at the watch-face through the glare of the skylight above them.
“Uhhh,” she tilts her chin, finding the minute-hand; “eleven seventeen.”
“Thank’ya kindly.”
She nods and smiles as he walks away, and she thinks, strangely, about that man’s mother, about whether she knows what’s hiding in his gaze. Because she always looks twice when she sees blonde hair and blue eyes, regardless of the age, and as her hand drifts to the flat of her stomach, she always wonders.
And she knows, every time, that this is what it means to have lost.
___________________
Her head snaps back into the empty air, her hands stilling against his hips, the fine lines of his bones, gripping bruises into the skin as she pushes against his tip, sinking onto him and letting him fill her one last time before she gives in, coming hard enough to scatter the world into fragments, to tear her apart at the seams.
She falls onto him, his heart beating heavily above her breasts, and she gasps his scent through the fog of musk and sex, still trilling from the inside, from between her thighs as he softens inside her. His arms curl up around her shoulder blades, warm and sticky on her bare skin, and she melts into the embrace; languid, spent, but strong.
They’re silent, except for the panting, the frantic rush to find normal again, and she slides down on a stream of sweat, her head nestled under his chin, sprawled against his chest and clinging to the moment before it’s gone.
“What if Harper,” she whispers, her breath catching, because she was never this person, never the “other woman,” and she doesn’t even know how she got here, under sheets that aren’t hers in a bed that her lover has shared with another, with his wife. “What if she...”
Goodwin cuts her off with a soft, lingering kiss to the side of her head, gentle and unassuming, and for that it’s all the more precious. “She won’t,” he murmurs just above her ear, the sound vibrating through his chest. And his heart doesn’t falter, doesn’t skip or speed, so Juliet believes him, loses herself to the assurance, and she never hears the footsteps, the labored breaths, the click of the door as it closes behind a woman who doesn’t believe in anything, anymore.
___________________
He is only seeing to the last of things before turning in for the night, and at first he doesn’t notice the silent frame bent before him, seeking refuge in hallowed halls; yet once he sees the aching soul settled still against the dark night ahead, Eko’s not sure how he ever missed him.
“Is there anything you needed, my son?” he speaks in low tones, keeping a distance but striding closer, slowly sweeping through the space that yawns between them, separating altar from congregation needlessly when the eve has stripped them both to mere men.
The man looks up, startled and shaken and a little bit chastened, as if his very presence on this plane of being is an offense to some greater entity, but the soft blue -that of storm clouds through the fog - that stares out at him, reaching out through wire rims bent awkwardly around his face, testaments to a time he doesn’t seem to belong to anymore, and quite possibly never did; in those pleading eyes, Eko is reminded anew that God moves in mysterious ways. The man looks more lost than anyone he’s ever laid eyes on, even in the mirror, and the way he shifts against the hard lines of the pew indicates that pain is the mark of his world, so it is lucky for him that Eko is here, for he too knows pain, and was always a rather skilled shepherd, when all was said and done.
“I apologize,” the man’s voice is smooth, a strange and welcome sound that fills the lofty ceilings and catches the light of the moon through the stained glass, which in turn catches the sorrowful blue rooted deep in his eyes. “I was under the impression that the sanctuary was open at all hours.”
The man moves to rise to his feet, though Eko can tell that even the slight motion is a struggle, and holds out his hand, moving forward another step. “God’s house is always open.” And the stranger, the lost sheep without a flock, he falls back against the woodgrain with a relief that floods through the air like the waves upon the sea, and Eko knows somehow that this is the culmination of everything in his life before this moment, the pinnacle of his mistakes, his transgressions, his suffering and his inadequacies - he was meant to be here, and while he doesn’t know why, he’s not sure he needs to.
“Tell me, Father,” the man asks suddenly, staring at the wall to his left. “What do you think of Saint Thomas?”
And it’s a question that churns in his stomach, leaden with so much more meaning than the words convey, than even their deepest implications can express, and Eko, he sees his brother when he blinks, standing behind the stranger with his hands on cowed shoulders, easing the burden of their weight. For only the blink of an eye.
“I believe that Thomas is an image of us all,” he replies, his collar suddenly tight. “That he was given to us so that we might know that even in our doubt, we may stand tall. That even in our doubt, we are not alone.”
A rush of cool, contented breeze sweeps through the chapel, despite the unseasonable warmth, the seals on the windows and doors; and he knows somehow that his purpose, his destiny, was only ever to answer that single question.
He just doesn’t know if that’s the answer he was destined to give.
___________________
She’s on the sofa when he gets in, feet dangling over the armrest, a trashy romance novel between her thumb and forefinger as she bites her lip through the sex scene, squinting down at the text and trying not to think about how this is the first time he’s come home to her, in his house, to which she now has a key. For, you know, emergencies, or if she ever needs to crash when he’s pulling graveyard on a weeknight. Nothing more.
His tie is already undone around his neck when he saunters into the living room, smiling at the gangly spectacle of her draped across his furniture before pausing to drop a kiss on her forehead.
“How was work?” she asks, setting the books aside, open to the page she left off.
“Slow,” he answers with a sigh, slipping the first two buttons on his shirt through their holes and letting the taut skin of his chest peek through. “Just one surgery.”
“And the verdict?” Because she can’t read his face one way or the other, and she knows that he’ll want scotch with his meal if the procedure went badly.
“Full recovery.” And they both grin a little as Claire swings her legs off the couch and sits up, stretching until her bones crack.
“My hero,” she declares dramatically, laughter in her voice and dancing in her blue-grey eyes as he sits down next to her, letting an arm settle against the back of the couch, inviting her to lean into him. “Though we should know better than to expect anything less from the great Jack Shephard, should we not?”
And he laughs at that, sinking lower into the give of the couch, and she loves seeing him like this - the way he relaxes, the way the tension rolls from him slowly, softly, but steady, like the gentle release of a sigh.
But a sigh that catches on the exhale, apparently, because he straightens suddenly, his eyes glued to the ubiquitous print framed on the opposite wall as he asks: “Have you ever heard of the the Hanso Foundation?”
She shakes her head decisively, turning herself to better face him. “Doesn’t really ring a bell.” Even though it kind of does, but more in the way the fog of a dream lingers in the back of your mind. She’s prone to doing that, sometimes, confusing her dreams with something more substantial, more real.
“This guy, the one we operated on? He came in, nothing but the clothes on his back and a forged Swiss passport, using a fake name from some hippy book.” And Claire bites back a smirk she knows he doesn’t notice, because she’s probably read whatever book it was, at one point or another. “No insurance, tumor was borderline inoperable by the time he came in, but then these Hanso people pop out of nowhere. Apparently they’re some big research outfit from Copenhagen.” He reaches over and sips from her water bottle where it sits on the end-table without its cap. “But yeah, they’re covering all of this guy’s expenses. No questions asked.”
She knows Jack well enough by now to understand that he likes a mystery best for the recognition of being the one to put it at rights, and she understands her place in his life right now enough to know that she’s not meant to merely temper that boyish longing for adventure; she’s meant to remind him that he doesn’t need a mystery to be noticed, to be admired and appreciated. To be...
“I guess some people are just lucky,” she tells him lightly, meaning in her eyes as he turns to catch them, and she can see the way his gaze softens, the way that spines and surgeries and Swiss passports melt from his mind, just a little, as he leans over to press a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth - halfway between her cheek and her lips, like something in him can’t decide. And it’s still new, that; new enough that she still gets butterflies in her stomach when his lips come close to hers, nervous and excited and strangely, a little nauseous, though she can’t quite figure out why.
“Mmmm, yeah,” he grins against her nose, his eyes a soft green in the light. “Some people.”
She traces his arm where she knows ink breaks the skin, fingers dancing over the crisp white of his shirt and drawing the lines in from memory, her hands intimate like the needle that left them in the first place, and she tugs at his elbow before standing, pulling him along and leading the way towards the kitchen.
“I made dinner,” she says unnecessarily, leaving him by the table and walking alone to the oven.
“Mmmm,” he sniffs the air, eyeing her questioningly; “spaghetti?”
“Close,” she grants him, drawing out the dish between hot pads, the glass still warm. “Lasagna.”
He smiles as he turns to grab two glasses, lacing them at the stems between his fingers, and snagging a bottle of wine from his growing collection to balance out his hands. “Sounds perfect.”
And yeah, Claire thinks, it kind of does.
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ensemble; Claire/Jack, Sayid/Nadia, Sun/Jin, Juliet/Goodwin
Word Count: 6,938
Summary: It’s hard to tell if you fixed it, when you can’t remember it being broken. For emiliglia, who requested “S6 speculation” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 18coda Prompt #3 - Canon. Warnings for suicidal thoughts, infidelity, and non-explicit incest between unknowing characters. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Regina Spektor.
Author’s Notes: For emiliglia: I really have no idea where this came from, aside from the inspiration of this song, but the best explanation I can give is that I had this thought about what might happen if what they set out to do actually did work. And while they may have “fixed” the situation, things still just weren’t right - Jack ending up with Claire, for instance, and the situations of Kate and Nadia. Overall, I wanted to create an S6 spec that dealt with the idea of there not being anything to fix, in the end - that messing with fate might just screw things up in different ways, and that if the universe course corrects along the way, there’s no outrunning destiny. Yeah. Not sure that worked. But it was the intent. And hopefully, you’ll enjoy it just a little bit anyway :)
Laughing With
Claire has always been the type who prefers not to be seen; as such, the spectacle of her awkwardly shuffling down the narrow aisle, holding her bag above the seats and tucking her stomach in so as not to catch against the tray tables, is enough to make her blood run hot and gather high in her cheeks.
She waddles a bit under the weight of her bags as she ambles along the segue and down to the gate, and she can barely see her toes at this point, so the fact that she stumbles where the fake walkway meets the real one is hardly surprising, except that it really is and she’s flailing a bit as she tries to grab hold of something to keep her balance.
“Easy,” the thing that she finds speaks softly, amused but kind, and she realizes belatedly that it’s a man she’s grabbed hold of, clutching at the lapels of his jacket, and he’s got his arm around her waist - or, what would be her waist again, someday - holding her steady and guiding her off to the side as the other passengers depart, and if she’s a little bit taken with him on the spot, well, she’s eight months pregnant, by God, and she hasn’t had a man spare her so much as a second glance in ages.
“You okay?” he asks as soon as she rights herself, taking her weight off of his steadying hands.
“I’m fine,” she assures him with a blustery shake of her head, feeling a little more than embarrassed by now, especially as the other disembarking passengers file awkwardly around her as they make their way towards baggage claim. “Just a bit clumsy, I guess.”
“Naw,” he flashes her a grin, bright against his dark hair, as he hikes his carryon up on his shoulder; “just getting your sea legs, still,” and they laugh, because her belly certainly feels like it belongs in the ocean, big as a whale. “How far along are you?” he asks, gesturing to her stomach, and she smiles, a hand resting on the prominent bump before she answers; “Eight months.”
He grins at her, and tells her that it’s no wonder she’s glowing, and Claire thinks she might just be a little bit in love.
He walks beside her, making polite conversation as they take the elevators down, waiting patiently when he could easily have finished the journey via the escalators already, or even on the stairs. He helps her into a cab after retrieving her luggage from the carousel, without even bothering to wait for his own to come round, and the little girl inside her, who still believes in fairy tales and rainbows and happily-ever-after, thinks maybe that means something.
___________________
He doesn’t live on a schedule, doesn’t play by the rules, and so when he decides that he wants a drink after wandering the city for a couple hours, the first bar he stumbles across becomes his island, his domain, and no one asks where the stream of C-notes he tosses across the counter come from; they just keep him well watered, and given the way he got spit out Down Under, that’s good enough for him.
The blonde man who saunters in looks like he’s had better days - his eyes are bloodshot, swollen underneath and bruised, tripping off a bad high; the way he holds the neck of his beer betraying the strain of hands that know when to be subtle, when to be strong.
He doesn’t remember when they start exchanging words between them, but afternoon bleeds into night and people start taking up the stools at the bar and before he even realizes what’s going on, the damn kid is perched next to him and they’re taking turns covering the rounds between the two of ‘em, and he suspects that if they keep up at the rate their going, he’s gonna have to spring for a cab for this fool, if the dwindling number of American dollars against a colorful collection of Her Majesty’s currency in the other man’s billfold is any indication.
“So,” the lanky blonde asks him between swallows; the damn limey’s matching him drink for drink, and if that’s not an indication of a sure fucking thing, then Sawyer’s never really deserved the title of con-man at all. “What d’you do for a living?”
Sawyer drains the last of his Killian’s, his grumble of a reply echoing around the mouth of the empty bottle; “‘m in real estate.”
“Think you could get a man a job?” Those worn and calloused fingers are peeling at the label of the beer, the glass sweating against rough palms, and Sawyer has to wonder what this kid’s story is, has to wonder why he cares.
“I’ll look into it for ya.”
That seems to satisfy the bastard. “Another shot?” he asks hopefully, and Sawyer knows better than anyone that there’s only one appropriate answer to that sort of proposition.
“What the hell.”
“My name’s Charlie,” the other man tips his shot glass indicatively towards Sawyer’s shoulder, but Sawyer can’t pay him back in kind - his throat’s already burning.
He tucks his chin into his chest and nods a little, his hair falling over his face as he glances Charlie’s way. “S’a good name.”
__________________
Boone Carlyle believes in destiny. Fuck yes, he believes in it, like he believes in air, and gravity, and that oil prices will continue to rise, if the incessant flicker of numbers, flashing ever-higher before him on the gas pump as he fills the Beemer, are any indication. He believes in destiny, and he believes that his apparently passed him by upon conception, as he’s become absolutely convinced that he was supposed to be a woman. Because he’s twenty-one years old, for fuck’s sake, and he still doesn’t know what it means to be a man.
His sister won’t speak to him - still pissed about the thing in Sydney, apparently, or else, the things in Sydney; his mother’s latest client has taken a particular liking to him and has offered generous monetary incentives (that he doesn’t even need) to accompany her every-fucking-where she goes, from the florist to the caterer to the goddamn spa where she wants to get her manicure, and of course, because he has no spine, he caves to her every whim; and Sabrina herself is being particularly ruthless with just how many dress designs need to be personally evaluated by him before they enter into selection for the clientele. And fuck all, he’s definitely not getting laid enough to be quite this pussy whipped.
That... thing in Sydney aside.
“Excuse me.” Boone looks up, disoriented for a moment before his eyes focus on the source of the question: a dark-skinned man standing near his trunk, the hose swinging gently between them. “Are you familiar with this area?”
Boone leans against the door, feeling the give of the tires as the whole thing shifts just a little, and he wishes he could have that kind of instantaneous impact on everything in his life, that sort of power. “Born and raised.”
“Then perhaps you can direct me.” The man’s voice is kind of interesting, accented in a strange but soothing way - he’s direct, and he’s commanding, but he’s unfailingly polite, and he’s everything Boone wishes he could be so he leans a little closer, careful that his hip doesn’t bump the nozzle, but cutting it pretty damn close. “I need to get to Irvine.”
And Boone knows where that is, so he grins, and tries not to look too eager, too pleased as the man thrusts a map in his direction and leans his head in to better hear over the squeal of tires and the incessant turning of engines. “Right,” Boone says, tracing a finger along the colored lines. “You’re gonna take a left at the end of this street here, see? And then you’ll merge right, make another left, get on Four-oh-Five South.”
He wraps up his directions with a vague “follow the signs,” and the man thanks him before walking back the way he must have came towards an idling Pontiac near the curb, and as Boone stops the nozzle and removes it from the tank, he wonders what’s in Irvine for all of three seconds before his phone vibrates in his jacket pocket. Swearing as a leftover drop of fuel falls on the toe of his shoe, he shoves the nozzle back into the pump and flips open his cell, squinting against the glare from the lights overhead to read the text message on his screen:
If u get arrested 4 talking 2 terrorists, i swear i’ll disown u.
He glances through the passenger-side window to where Shannon is sitting in the front seat, feet propped onto the dashboard and a newly-manicured fingernail tapping indicatively against the her phone as she locks her door against the retreating threat. Boone rolls his eyes at her and she raises an angry brow in response as he grabs at the receipt that curls off of the pump, breathing deeply, carefully, the fumes burning in his lungs.
His sister will be the death of him.
__________________
The couple who wants to adopt her baby are quite possibly the sweetest people she’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, and that alone rubs her just a little bit wrong. But Ethan and Bea, they’re more than accommodating, paying for her room at the Hilton Checkers for the full six months of her visa, and writing her a check for more money than she’s ever touched in her life, which would probably feel rather wrong given the circumstances, except that she doesn’t have the resources to support herself here, and beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And he’s a doctor, and she speaks more languages that Claire can even think of, and their name is Rom, and that sounds nice, she guesses - professional. Would look good on a check.
She wonders what they’ll name him.
They don’t come to visit her after the delivery, don’t say goodbye, and she only holds the little boy the one time, but she can’t help but cry for him, curled up around her flattened stomach and mourning the loss she brought upon herself.
They wheel her out of the hospital, and while she’s already called to have a taxi take her back to the Hilton, she feels extremely lonely on the curb as she waits for her cab. She stares blankly into the shrubbery that colors the metal and glass of the entrance, feeling desperately tired, and she barely even notices a person move in and out of her line of sight, ever closer, watching her until a hand rests on her shoulder and sends her heart into her throat, choking back a frightened squeak
“I thought that was you!” And that smile wakens her form her stupor, and his hand on her arm is somehow nicer, warmer now that she’s not stumbling off a plane with her stomach sticking out in front of her; it’s only now that it’s happened that she realizes she’d been hoping to see this man again.
“You’re a doctor?” she asks stupidly, noticing the scrubs and the coat for the first time, trying her damnedest not to think about where her eye-level hits on his body from where she’s sitting in her wheelchair.
He nods with a sort of bashful grin. “Just taking a breather,” he adds, looking up intently at the sky. “Rough day.”
“I’m sorry.” She looks away before he can glance back to meet her gaze, but she feels his eyes on her, hard and curious and vaguely concerned, and she can tell what he wants to know, and feels just a little bit special that he seems reluctant to ask - he is a doctor, after all, so it shouldn’t be too hard of a question.
“Adoption,” she says with a soft smile that only half-hides the lingering regret, and he seems to understand - it bleeds dark against the soft shine of his eyes.
“Ah, I see.” And he doesn’t judge her, which is a nice change, because while his eyes narrow, they’re narrowed at her, not at what she’s done. “It went well though?” he asks, genuinely worried after her, and it’s been too long since anyone was actually worried about little old Claire. “You’re feeling all right?”
“Well enough.”
His eyes wander to the lot beyond, the parking garages and the pavement. “Waiting for someone to pull the car up?” he asks, and the tone in his voice is hard to read - she can’t put her finger on it.
“The Checker Cab company, sure,” she replies with a gentle chuckle, shaking her head at his eyes as they widen, giving him permission to laugh in return. “It’s just me.”
“Just you in this big city?” he asks, a little incredulous, a little unsure. “Fresh out of the hospital?” And he takes a step towards her, just one, sizing her up and staring in a way that makes her feel both uncomfortable, and so very, very safe at the same exact time.
He fumbles in the pocket of his lab coat, thumbing for something specific before he extracts a small metal case. “Here,” he says, flipping it open and avoiding her eyes. “I, uh, I don’t normally do things like this, but,” and he takes out a single rectangle of thin card stock, flipping it over his finger like a dealer in Vegas. “In case you need anything,” he sums up, handing her his card, and as she takes it, fingering the sleek embossing of Jack Shephard, M.D., he lets his hand linger across her wrist, reading the typewriter-text of her name against her ID bracelet from the hospital.
“Claire,” and her name sounds sweet, coming off his lips; “Seriously. It can get lonely here without… anyone.”
It’s like he can read her mind, and while before she knows it he’s waving at her and disappearing through the automatic doors as they yawn open to swallow him up in a gasp of recycled air, she’s still smiling once he’s gone.
In the cab, she pulls her passport out of her purse and stares at the stamp from Immigration, studying the numbers; humming “Catch a Falling Star” and wondering idly what it would take to be able to stay here a little longer.
___________________
It’s a little bit hellish, really, but she’s nothing if not a survivor. She’d do what she had to. Always.
Ironically, it was that same mentality that landed her here in the first place. And honestly, she’s still kind of shocked that the plea held, but whatever. She’s just not entirely sure this was better than prison.
Her therapist, who insists on being called Libby instead of Doctor Something, tries real hard to be her friend. Tries to relate to her. Tells her that everyone has their ghosts, their demons; and Libby says that she’s been there, that she understands. And something in the shadow of the woman’s eyes makes her seem genuine beyond dispute, it’s just that Kate doesn’t give a shit.
Libby asks her about her childhood, asks her what she remembers. And while part of Kate really just wants to tell her that she was most certainly in her right mind when she torched that bastard in his fucking bed, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat, something else seizes her tongue and makes itself known.
“I remember, my dad had a boat,” she tells the blonde one day, because it’s something she’d forgotten, and it doesn’t really matter. Sam used to go sailing when he was on the coast with the service when she was really little, and while he’d sold the thing before her fifth birthday, she can recall one particularly hot summer spent outside Beaufort, and the sting of the water flying from their wake as they skidded along in line with the horizon.
Libby doesn’t analyze it, though, doesn’t dwell; just stares out the window for a minute, running her pen along the ridge of her palm as she murmurs wistfully to the treetops - “I had a boat once.”
Kate spends her free time indoors, exclusively, squeezing the hell out of a stress ball as she watches people with real problems play Connect Four and paint with the same five colors for hours on end. When one of her fellow inmates shuffles next to her - the tubby one who always has a bottle of water in his hand and a candy bar sticking out of his pocket - her fingernails break the surface of the squishy globe held in her palm.
“Hey,” the man says, and his is the kind of voice that your best friend in high school had - that casual, rough sort of sound that blends into the background and makes your chest feel buoyant.
Kate never had a best friend in high school.
“You look like you don’t want to be bothered,” he continues, and Kate fights a smirk because she’d been so very sure she was coming across as absolutely fucking personable; “but sometimes that means that people are lonely, when they look like they don’t want anyone to bother them, and then they really do want someone to bother them.” He pauses, and Kate can’t really be mad at him; she’s pretty sure it would be impossible to be mad at him. “Well, like, not bother them,” he corrects with a gesture of his hands that might have been grand if it weren’t for the way his arms sort of swung from his elbows, haphazard and floppy; “but you know, keep them company. Or something.”
He takes a long series of breaths before tacking on, like an apology, almost: “My therapist says I should try to make new friends.” And he stares out the window like she does, sometimes - like he knows that he’s only here because it’s just one cage versus any other. Every other.
“That’s funny,” she says, swallowing a grin as she brushes her matted curls out of her eyes; “so does mine.”
And it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to smile, because his is big and bright enough for the both of them. “Libby?” he asks knowingly, his eyes mischievous, and when he laughs at her little nod she can’t help but giggle, because this man is like infectious, inescapable joy, even in this place, this little hellhole where the paint peels and the windows are reinforced and people wear robes all fucking day.
She looks over at him, her smile still lingering as he thrusts a blue-and-yellow streak of something that catches the light in her direction. “Apollo bar?” he asks, expression hopeful, and even if she hated the things, she couldn’t have told him no.
“My name’s Hugo,” he introduces himself as she rips open the wrapper and takes a bite.
“Hi Hugo,” she says between chews, nuts cracking against her teeth and leaving chocolate stains on her gums; “I’m Kate.”
___________________
Michael, for all he’s ever wished otherwise, just isn’t cut out to be a father.
He tries, he really does. He buys whatever Walt wants for dinner, gives his dog free rein of the apartment, let’s him stay up until ten on school nights, but they just don’t click, really; they’re strangers, in the end, and they can’t seem to get past that.
They struggle through a whole year, with Michael working doubles and Walt essentially raising himself, and Walt joins every extracurricular he can possibly justify his involvement in, from the handball team to the Future Astrophysicists of America, in order to stay out of the house. So when Mittelos Bioscience offers Walt a place at their residential preparatory school in the Pacific Northwest, it’s a relief to both of them.
Vincent, though - he stays behind.
___________________
Claire sips at the coffee she fetched from the continental breakfast downstairs as she flips the pages of the Times, the heat of the mug making her fingers sweat and bleeding the ink into the newsprint. She opens her pay-as-you-go phone for the time, and sees that Jack’s texted her, asking if she’s interested in catching a late lunch when he finishes up at the hospital. She grins at the screen like a loon, like he can see it, and nods as she sends back: “Sure; know any good Chinese?” because she hasn’t had a decent stir fry since she vomited noodles in her second trimester, and because she’s pretty sure that catching lunch four times in one week means that there’s something more there besides a friendly face and a meal partner to avoid the single-take-out walk of shame.
She scans the paper, past the Wall Street babble and the obits, something prompting her to stop on a short blurb about a local truck driver who caused a thirty-two-car pile up in New York state that past weekend. It seems almost like a morbid human interest article, small details about some of the survivors, most of the victims. The family of four who flipped their SUV. The teenagers thrown from their car because of a defective restraint system. The Great Surviving Dane, just a puppy, that was all that remained of another family. The attorney and his assistant. The cab driver off duty. The state representative, up for re-election. The dentist and the new wife, just back from their honeymoon.
Her eyes are brought back to the same line of text, over and over, and she doesn’t understand why; she feels a sob gather in her chest, nudging at her throat, and she’s suddenly grateful for all this chaos and uncertainty, for everything - because while it hadn’t all happened the way she’d planned it, the way she’d wanted, she was still here to see it happen, nonetheless. And some people - good people; well, some just weren’t that lucky.
Bernard Nadler, a 57-year-old dentist from Buffalo, died on impact. His wife, Rose, remains in critical condition at Kenmore Mercy Hospital.
The world, she thinks, is unfair like that.
___________________
They’re found, of course. Eventually. The world is only so big, after all, and they can’t hide forever.
There’s a death, apparently, a murder at Mittelos Laboratories, somewhere south of them, and her husband was seen on security footage outside the establishment in the hours before the incident. And Sun knows, knows in her gut and because she knows her husband, that he had something to do with it. Knows in the way he smiles, genuine but tight, his eyes weighted with a real sympathy, an honest sorrow for the loss.
Officer Cortez is extremely pleasant about the entire affair. She waits to be invited into the house, sits politely on the settee and sips gently at the tea Sun offers, making small talk about some Southern con artist and his British sidekick that her department is trying to track down until Jin comes back from the restroom. She explains the situation without accusation, and when Jin admits to having been at Mittelos on business, Sun tenses as the officer seems to relax. Because while denial is the mark of the guilty, Sun knows that there is absolutely no defensible reason for Jin to have been there, had he been at work with the law firm where he’d told her he’d gotten a position weeks ago.
Jin shoos her away once the officer begins questioning him, and Sun notices that the woman, Cortez, looks impossibly tired. Sun wanders into the kitchen, cleaning the dishes and wiping the countertops before even that reveals itself as pointless, and she retreats to the bedroom, moves to sorting clothes for laundry. She separates her own first before moving on to Jin’s, and she does her best to swallow the bile burning her throat when she notices the speck of rusty red against the belt-loop on the khakis she’s turning inside out, tells herself it’s sauce of some sort, and does what she does best: looks the other way.
It’s harder to look away from what she finds in the front pocket, however: two pieces of paper folded impossibly small, too small for her to write off but too big for her to ignore, and her fingers are already smoothing them, tracing the truth off of them with trembling hands.
The first paper is white, worn, still damp with sweat in places and creased in many different patterns, folded and unfolded with nervous repetition. It’s plain, and it’s stark, and it doesn’t leave any room for interpretation, and it all makes Sun feel nauseous, feel faint:
Target: Noor Abed Jazeem
Operating as Nadia Shamar (ناديةشمار); Laboratory Technician - Mittelos
Laboratories
Irvine, California, USA
Priority Two; Terminate
Contact: 37°33′0″N 126°59′0″E
Below that, the yellow carbon copy of a purchase order gleams canary against the crumpled white, the scent of charcoal mingling with the sheer indifference of the report, issued in triplicate; the implications of it all settling like lead in her stomach:
Mittelos Bioscience, Irvine Research Facility
Services Rendered; Paik Heavy Industries (백중공업) for The
Widmore Corporation.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Kwon?”
Her hands are shaking, she can hear the way the paper flutters, loud as it crinkles under her grasp, and when she drops it hastily behind her, the guilty black marks of shame and smoke and death linger heavy on her fingerprints.
“Fine, thank you,” she manages to say softly as the policeman - Cortez’s partner, she assumes - walks slowly towards her from the open door. She keeps her eyes diverted as she folds her hands against her lap, surreptitiously rubbing her fingertips into her skirt in hopes of wiping them clean, of making this all go away.
She expects him to tell her that they’ll be in contact. That her ongoing cooperation is anticipated enough to be appreciated in advance, that any suspicious goings on, anything unusual should be reported to them immediately, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant, that she shouldn’t plan on leaving town without due notice, et cetera, et cetera. She’s heard it all before.
But when he leans towards her, blue eyes wide and almost somber, hand on her shoulder and lips close to her ear, he whispers something very different; something earnest and honest and for her alone: “Don’t forget that you love him. No matter what happens, never forget that.”
“Excuse me?” She watches him pull away, and where she must look absolutely bewildered, he looks calm, as if he knows what she’s trying to hide, sees her for every flaw she has and not only forgives it, but accepts it. Celebrates it. Knows it, and doesn’t mind.
She’s almost breathless with the sensation of it all as she asks him at the very last second, as he turns against the grain of the doorframe: “What did you say your name was?”
And the man, the strange and wonderful man that she knows, only doesn’t - he smiles. “I didn’t.”
She’s flipping through wedding pictures, trying to remember, doing her best not to forget, and when she sees him - unmistakably him - waiting in the receiving line after the ceremony, sandwiched in monochrome between colorful aunts from her side of the family.
Only then does she realize that he didn’t have a badge, or a gun.
___________________
Like all the great conquerers, John Locke falls because of Russia.
“Well played, Colonel,” Ronald says with an encouraging sort of smile and a quick pat on John’s shoulder as he folds up the game board. “Better luck next time.”
“Oh yes, Colonel Locke,” Randy mocks from behind them, grabbing a Mr. Cluck's Crunchy Combo box from the refrigerator and popping a cold potato wedge into his mouth, chewing around his words; “you’ll get ‘em next time.”
He has an extra fifteen minutes left of his lunch, so he takes it out of the office, even if he’s ten minutes late returning to work. Randy, of course, is waiting for him at his desk with a sneer at the bag tied to the side of his chair.
“Hardware, John?” he asks skeptically at the ACE logo rustling against the metal, banging back on the wheel when he moves. “The Colonel is a man of many talents, I see.” And he’s sick of this, he’s absolutely done with this man and this place, because the truth is that as much as he wants to believe that they can’t tell him what he can and cannot do, the fact remains that what they tell him is usually true. “Gonna climb up and patch the roof this weekend?” Randy cackles, derisive and sharp, as he retreats around a cubicle.
John tries his best not to waver, not to give into the bait, and instead focuses on what the extension cord in the bag is really for.
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Claire doesn’t much care for shopping really, so much as people watching. She likes to go to the mall and browse sale racks and try on shoes she’ll never buy, but her favorite part of the experience is sitting at the edge of the food court with a medium smoothie and just taking everything in.
“Got the time, darlin’?” She didn’t even notice the man approach from behind, and his smile is a little to close to a lear for her liking, but he smells achingly good, and his voice is accented with the sun of the American South, and his eyes tell stories she doesn’t want to know, because they hurt just to look at, so she looks to her wrist and squints down at the watch-face through the glare of the skylight above them.
“Uhhh,” she tilts her chin, finding the minute-hand; “eleven seventeen.”
“Thank’ya kindly.”
She nods and smiles as he walks away, and she thinks, strangely, about that man’s mother, about whether she knows what’s hiding in his gaze. Because she always looks twice when she sees blonde hair and blue eyes, regardless of the age, and as her hand drifts to the flat of her stomach, she always wonders.
And she knows, every time, that this is what it means to have lost.
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Her head snaps back into the empty air, her hands stilling against his hips, the fine lines of his bones, gripping bruises into the skin as she pushes against his tip, sinking onto him and letting him fill her one last time before she gives in, coming hard enough to scatter the world into fragments, to tear her apart at the seams.
She falls onto him, his heart beating heavily above her breasts, and she gasps his scent through the fog of musk and sex, still trilling from the inside, from between her thighs as he softens inside her. His arms curl up around her shoulder blades, warm and sticky on her bare skin, and she melts into the embrace; languid, spent, but strong.
They’re silent, except for the panting, the frantic rush to find normal again, and she slides down on a stream of sweat, her head nestled under his chin, sprawled against his chest and clinging to the moment before it’s gone.
“What if Harper,” she whispers, her breath catching, because she was never this person, never the “other woman,” and she doesn’t even know how she got here, under sheets that aren’t hers in a bed that her lover has shared with another, with his wife. “What if she...”
Goodwin cuts her off with a soft, lingering kiss to the side of her head, gentle and unassuming, and for that it’s all the more precious. “She won’t,” he murmurs just above her ear, the sound vibrating through his chest. And his heart doesn’t falter, doesn’t skip or speed, so Juliet believes him, loses herself to the assurance, and she never hears the footsteps, the labored breaths, the click of the door as it closes behind a woman who doesn’t believe in anything, anymore.
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He is only seeing to the last of things before turning in for the night, and at first he doesn’t notice the silent frame bent before him, seeking refuge in hallowed halls; yet once he sees the aching soul settled still against the dark night ahead, Eko’s not sure how he ever missed him.
“Is there anything you needed, my son?” he speaks in low tones, keeping a distance but striding closer, slowly sweeping through the space that yawns between them, separating altar from congregation needlessly when the eve has stripped them both to mere men.
The man looks up, startled and shaken and a little bit chastened, as if his very presence on this plane of being is an offense to some greater entity, but the soft blue -that of storm clouds through the fog - that stares out at him, reaching out through wire rims bent awkwardly around his face, testaments to a time he doesn’t seem to belong to anymore, and quite possibly never did; in those pleading eyes, Eko is reminded anew that God moves in mysterious ways. The man looks more lost than anyone he’s ever laid eyes on, even in the mirror, and the way he shifts against the hard lines of the pew indicates that pain is the mark of his world, so it is lucky for him that Eko is here, for he too knows pain, and was always a rather skilled shepherd, when all was said and done.
“I apologize,” the man’s voice is smooth, a strange and welcome sound that fills the lofty ceilings and catches the light of the moon through the stained glass, which in turn catches the sorrowful blue rooted deep in his eyes. “I was under the impression that the sanctuary was open at all hours.”
The man moves to rise to his feet, though Eko can tell that even the slight motion is a struggle, and holds out his hand, moving forward another step. “God’s house is always open.” And the stranger, the lost sheep without a flock, he falls back against the woodgrain with a relief that floods through the air like the waves upon the sea, and Eko knows somehow that this is the culmination of everything in his life before this moment, the pinnacle of his mistakes, his transgressions, his suffering and his inadequacies - he was meant to be here, and while he doesn’t know why, he’s not sure he needs to.
“Tell me, Father,” the man asks suddenly, staring at the wall to his left. “What do you think of Saint Thomas?”
And it’s a question that churns in his stomach, leaden with so much more meaning than the words convey, than even their deepest implications can express, and Eko, he sees his brother when he blinks, standing behind the stranger with his hands on cowed shoulders, easing the burden of their weight. For only the blink of an eye.
“I believe that Thomas is an image of us all,” he replies, his collar suddenly tight. “That he was given to us so that we might know that even in our doubt, we may stand tall. That even in our doubt, we are not alone.”
A rush of cool, contented breeze sweeps through the chapel, despite the unseasonable warmth, the seals on the windows and doors; and he knows somehow that his purpose, his destiny, was only ever to answer that single question.
He just doesn’t know if that’s the answer he was destined to give.
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She’s on the sofa when he gets in, feet dangling over the armrest, a trashy romance novel between her thumb and forefinger as she bites her lip through the sex scene, squinting down at the text and trying not to think about how this is the first time he’s come home to her, in his house, to which she now has a key. For, you know, emergencies, or if she ever needs to crash when he’s pulling graveyard on a weeknight. Nothing more.
His tie is already undone around his neck when he saunters into the living room, smiling at the gangly spectacle of her draped across his furniture before pausing to drop a kiss on her forehead.
“How was work?” she asks, setting the books aside, open to the page she left off.
“Slow,” he answers with a sigh, slipping the first two buttons on his shirt through their holes and letting the taut skin of his chest peek through. “Just one surgery.”
“And the verdict?” Because she can’t read his face one way or the other, and she knows that he’ll want scotch with his meal if the procedure went badly.
“Full recovery.” And they both grin a little as Claire swings her legs off the couch and sits up, stretching until her bones crack.
“My hero,” she declares dramatically, laughter in her voice and dancing in her blue-grey eyes as he sits down next to her, letting an arm settle against the back of the couch, inviting her to lean into him. “Though we should know better than to expect anything less from the great Jack Shephard, should we not?”
And he laughs at that, sinking lower into the give of the couch, and she loves seeing him like this - the way he relaxes, the way the tension rolls from him slowly, softly, but steady, like the gentle release of a sigh.
But a sigh that catches on the exhale, apparently, because he straightens suddenly, his eyes glued to the ubiquitous print framed on the opposite wall as he asks: “Have you ever heard of the the Hanso Foundation?”
She shakes her head decisively, turning herself to better face him. “Doesn’t really ring a bell.” Even though it kind of does, but more in the way the fog of a dream lingers in the back of your mind. She’s prone to doing that, sometimes, confusing her dreams with something more substantial, more real.
“This guy, the one we operated on? He came in, nothing but the clothes on his back and a forged Swiss passport, using a fake name from some hippy book.” And Claire bites back a smirk she knows he doesn’t notice, because she’s probably read whatever book it was, at one point or another. “No insurance, tumor was borderline inoperable by the time he came in, but then these Hanso people pop out of nowhere. Apparently they’re some big research outfit from Copenhagen.” He reaches over and sips from her water bottle where it sits on the end-table without its cap. “But yeah, they’re covering all of this guy’s expenses. No questions asked.”
She knows Jack well enough by now to understand that he likes a mystery best for the recognition of being the one to put it at rights, and she understands her place in his life right now enough to know that she’s not meant to merely temper that boyish longing for adventure; she’s meant to remind him that he doesn’t need a mystery to be noticed, to be admired and appreciated. To be...
“I guess some people are just lucky,” she tells him lightly, meaning in her eyes as he turns to catch them, and she can see the way his gaze softens, the way that spines and surgeries and Swiss passports melt from his mind, just a little, as he leans over to press a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth - halfway between her cheek and her lips, like something in him can’t decide. And it’s still new, that; new enough that she still gets butterflies in her stomach when his lips come close to hers, nervous and excited and strangely, a little nauseous, though she can’t quite figure out why.
“Mmmm, yeah,” he grins against her nose, his eyes a soft green in the light. “Some people.”
She traces his arm where she knows ink breaks the skin, fingers dancing over the crisp white of his shirt and drawing the lines in from memory, her hands intimate like the needle that left them in the first place, and she tugs at his elbow before standing, pulling him along and leading the way towards the kitchen.
“I made dinner,” she says unnecessarily, leaving him by the table and walking alone to the oven.
“Mmmm,” he sniffs the air, eyeing her questioningly; “spaghetti?”
“Close,” she grants him, drawing out the dish between hot pads, the glass still warm. “Lasagna.”
He smiles as he turns to grab two glasses, lacing them at the stems between his fingers, and snagging a bottle of wine from his growing collection to balance out his hands. “Sounds perfect.”
And yeah, Claire thinks, it kind of does.