Fic, Lost: Somewhere Along the Line I Slipped off Track (Jack/Shannon), R
*bows in front of Queen eponine119 *
Title: Somewhere Along the Line I Slipped off Track
Rating: R
Characters: Jack/Shannon, implied Shannon/Boone and Jack/Boone
Words: 1000.
Summary: The only thing he says is that he’s sorry; it’s the only thing she says, too..
Spoilers: through The Greater Good.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Why, would I write it in this setting if it was?
A/N: queen eponine119, asking for unusual pairings, expressed preference for Jack/Shannon. Now, I really tried, but being on the Jack/Boone side of the fence (and on the Boone side of the fence anyway) brought my head to this which I'm afraid is utterly depressing. I hope you like it anyway! *bows* using also for un_love_you #19, this isn't about you at all, even if it could be a bit of a cheat. Title stolen from Springsteen's One Step Up, which doesn't have a thing to do with this whatsoever.
It’s just so wrong and she shouldn’t and if Boone is watching them, he isn’t liking it.
She knows that Jack feels the same and it doesn’t help her feeling better. Not one little bit.
They just couldn’t not.
One second she was alone, remembering how the gun felt in her hand, knowing that by shooting she was also going against all of Boone’s principles but not caring about it enough, like she hadn’t cared enough about Boone’s side of the fence for the last two years in general, bile rising if she only thought about Sayid.
The second after, Jack was there in front of her, worn out, pale (he gave Boone his blood, right?), telling her that he was sorry and while he didn’t agree on the mean, he definitely agreed on Locke being the one responsible.
The second after, she had broken down crying again, unable to stop it, feeling absolutely and completely ashamed at doing it in front of Jack; she had been just a bit surprised when he had taken her in his arms and she had felt him crying against her, while Shannon’s head rested on his shoulder, her hands grabbing his shoulders with a strength she wasn’t even aware of having.
She had muttered something against his tear soaked shirt, maybe along the lines about of not being there to tell him she had loved him somewhat, and Jack had surprised her again whispering something along the lines of he was there and couldn’t tell Boone either.
Shannon had had an idea once that there was some tension. She hadn’t cared. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe she hadn’t, but she didn’t even want to know if Jack was referring to tension or to something more.
The kiss had happened. She doesn’t know when, how or why, but it did.
Now it’s Jack’s hands roaming along her stomach, his mouth on hers, her arms around his neck bringing him down. He tastes like salt, blood and sweat; she doesn’t know how she tastes like and she doesn’t even want to. She just knows that he’s been the last with Boone, that he gave him his own blood, that whatever still remains of Boone which isn’t his clothes is in Jack, in the hands that were the last to touch him and on the clothes he was wearing when he died, the same he’s wearing now.
There’s a sort of desperation behind the way Jack moves, the way he kisses her, the way his tongue slowly plunges into her mouth, in the way his hands shake while he undresses her; she knows she’s mirroring it in the way she tries to rush this, to make it faster, even if he doesn’t match her rhythm.
She can’t help going back to Sydney, where Boone had been slow with her, too, and she had tried to rush it, too. Everything to make it end as soon as possible. She feels even more ashamed now, on top of the shame.
The only thing he says is that he’s sorry; it’s the only thing she says, too.
She’s isn’t wearing her shirt and he’s still wearing his when he’s in her for the first time; her nails dig into his skin and she knows she’s leaving scratches. It hurts a lot and not much on the physical side, but she only bites his shoulder and there’s no pleasure when he comes, first, and she comes, later, the dirt on the ground sticking to the skin of them both. They don’t say anything; she knows her tear-stained face shows just how ashamed she is when Jack gives her his shirt to wear, since her own is so dirty with mud and earth that he probably doesn’t want her to wear it. She takes a look at Jack, her vision blurry, observing in his chest, his arms, his face, which should look strong but seem so incredibly weak now, his motions so slow. She knows it’s the same for her; she should be beautiful or at least look pretty enough, but she can feel the mess her hair is (there’s mud there, too), her feet hurt, one of the shoes she kicked off is broken, she can’t even wear her clothes and Jack’s shirt is warm but too big on her. Not to talk about the mess her face has to be.
It’s dark outside and she wonders briefly what Sayid is doing, feeling like crying again because maybe he was right and maybe she has messed everything up again, but it hurts just so much that she can’t even begin to think straight. She can’t and she can only be grateful when Jack’s arm passes around her shoulder and she lets her head lie on his. She doesn’t even try to close her eyes and pretend it’s Boone; they are, were, Jack is and Boone was, she doesn’t know any more, way too different to even try. But she doesn’t care and it’s more or less right because while her and Jack couldn’t be more different, she feels like they’re sharing something now and he’s probably the only one really understanding the utter feeling of powerlessness that has taken hold of her since he spoke those three words to her the day before the funeral.
Knowing why isn’t really the point of the matter, right? The only point is that Boone is dead, they aren’t and he probably would be disgusted at the both of them, but well, thinking more about it, maybe he wouldn’t. He just wasn’t the kind, she thinks, and the sensation it brings is so strangely bittersweet.
“You said you were there until the end, right?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“I was,” he answers, his voice tight. It looks like he can’t hold himself together for more than two words.
“Thanks,” it’s the only thing she can bring herself to say. He nods and just holds her a bit tighter. It will have to do.
End.
Title: Somewhere Along the Line I Slipped off Track
Rating: R
Characters: Jack/Shannon, implied Shannon/Boone and Jack/Boone
Words: 1000.
Summary: The only thing he says is that he’s sorry; it’s the only thing she says, too..
Spoilers: through The Greater Good.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Why, would I write it in this setting if it was?
A/N: queen eponine119, asking for unusual pairings, expressed preference for Jack/Shannon. Now, I really tried, but being on the Jack/Boone side of the fence (and on the Boone side of the fence anyway) brought my head to this which I'm afraid is utterly depressing. I hope you like it anyway! *bows* using also for un_love_you #19, this isn't about you at all, even if it could be a bit of a cheat. Title stolen from Springsteen's One Step Up, which doesn't have a thing to do with this whatsoever.
It’s just so wrong and she shouldn’t and if Boone is watching them, he isn’t liking it.
She knows that Jack feels the same and it doesn’t help her feeling better. Not one little bit.
They just couldn’t not.
One second she was alone, remembering how the gun felt in her hand, knowing that by shooting she was also going against all of Boone’s principles but not caring about it enough, like she hadn’t cared enough about Boone’s side of the fence for the last two years in general, bile rising if she only thought about Sayid.
The second after, Jack was there in front of her, worn out, pale (he gave Boone his blood, right?), telling her that he was sorry and while he didn’t agree on the mean, he definitely agreed on Locke being the one responsible.
The second after, she had broken down crying again, unable to stop it, feeling absolutely and completely ashamed at doing it in front of Jack; she had been just a bit surprised when he had taken her in his arms and she had felt him crying against her, while Shannon’s head rested on his shoulder, her hands grabbing his shoulders with a strength she wasn’t even aware of having.
She had muttered something against his tear soaked shirt, maybe along the lines about of not being there to tell him she had loved him somewhat, and Jack had surprised her again whispering something along the lines of he was there and couldn’t tell Boone either.
Shannon had had an idea once that there was some tension. She hadn’t cared. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe she hadn’t, but she didn’t even want to know if Jack was referring to tension or to something more.
The kiss had happened. She doesn’t know when, how or why, but it did.
Now it’s Jack’s hands roaming along her stomach, his mouth on hers, her arms around his neck bringing him down. He tastes like salt, blood and sweat; she doesn’t know how she tastes like and she doesn’t even want to. She just knows that he’s been the last with Boone, that he gave him his own blood, that whatever still remains of Boone which isn’t his clothes is in Jack, in the hands that were the last to touch him and on the clothes he was wearing when he died, the same he’s wearing now.
There’s a sort of desperation behind the way Jack moves, the way he kisses her, the way his tongue slowly plunges into her mouth, in the way his hands shake while he undresses her; she knows she’s mirroring it in the way she tries to rush this, to make it faster, even if he doesn’t match her rhythm.
She can’t help going back to Sydney, where Boone had been slow with her, too, and she had tried to rush it, too. Everything to make it end as soon as possible. She feels even more ashamed now, on top of the shame.
The only thing he says is that he’s sorry; it’s the only thing she says, too.
She’s isn’t wearing her shirt and he’s still wearing his when he’s in her for the first time; her nails dig into his skin and she knows she’s leaving scratches. It hurts a lot and not much on the physical side, but she only bites his shoulder and there’s no pleasure when he comes, first, and she comes, later, the dirt on the ground sticking to the skin of them both. They don’t say anything; she knows her tear-stained face shows just how ashamed she is when Jack gives her his shirt to wear, since her own is so dirty with mud and earth that he probably doesn’t want her to wear it. She takes a look at Jack, her vision blurry, observing in his chest, his arms, his face, which should look strong but seem so incredibly weak now, his motions so slow. She knows it’s the same for her; she should be beautiful or at least look pretty enough, but she can feel the mess her hair is (there’s mud there, too), her feet hurt, one of the shoes she kicked off is broken, she can’t even wear her clothes and Jack’s shirt is warm but too big on her. Not to talk about the mess her face has to be.
It’s dark outside and she wonders briefly what Sayid is doing, feeling like crying again because maybe he was right and maybe she has messed everything up again, but it hurts just so much that she can’t even begin to think straight. She can’t and she can only be grateful when Jack’s arm passes around her shoulder and she lets her head lie on his. She doesn’t even try to close her eyes and pretend it’s Boone; they are, were, Jack is and Boone was, she doesn’t know any more, way too different to even try. But she doesn’t care and it’s more or less right because while her and Jack couldn’t be more different, she feels like they’re sharing something now and he’s probably the only one really understanding the utter feeling of powerlessness that has taken hold of her since he spoke those three words to her the day before the funeral.
Knowing why isn’t really the point of the matter, right? The only point is that Boone is dead, they aren’t and he probably would be disgusted at the both of them, but well, thinking more about it, maybe he wouldn’t. He just wasn’t the kind, she thinks, and the sensation it brings is so strangely bittersweet.
“You said you were there until the end, right?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“I was,” he answers, his voice tight. It looks like he can’t hold himself together for more than two words.
“Thanks,” it’s the only thing she can bring herself to say. He nods and just holds her a bit tighter. It will have to do.
End.