Challenge #9 - Dreams/Nightmares
Title: Losing It (All Over Again)
Rating: PG-13 (little language)
Character: Shannon, Claire, minor appearances by others.
Pairing: None
Word Count: 1201
Warning: Post S1. Pre S2.
If it’d been a bad dream, a nightmare, Shannon doesn’t think she’d be wigged half so much.
Boone wouldn’t believe it. She walks around in a daze, propelled mostly by Sayid’s hand on her arm, or Walt’s dog tugging on its leash. She has no momentum of her own. She’s cried, for heaven’s sake; cried herself sick and breathless until even Sun’s eucalyptus tisanes are no help. Who knew she had it in her?
But she would understand a nightmare. A nightmare would make sense. She likes it when things make sense, even if it’s only her funky version of it. But this…
It was so long ago.
And so stupid.
She doesn’t even remember why she was home. She usually avoided the house as much as humanly possible, even before Boone decided he was desperately in love with her and became such a whiny little toad.
But she remembers coming home and finding him sprawled on the floor in front of the big-screen in a T-shirt and boxers, ginormous bowl of popcorn balanced expertly on his belly. On the screen, some scantily clad twit in the ugliest shoes Shannon’s ever seen is trying to outrun a zombie and doing a piss-poor job of it. As usual.
“Lovely,” Shannon comments and leans on the doorjamb. “They won’t even need to hold Nerdcoming Queen elections this year, hon-you’re a shoo-in.”
Boone rolls his eyes up at her. “Oh, put a sock in it, Bitcherella. Why don’t you try for one night to be a human being? C’mon. You love zombie movies.”
And she does. “Oh, all right,” she sighs-to both their surprise-and comes to sit next to him on the floor. “Scoot over. And give me some popcorn.”
It wasn’t a big deal, or a “special” moment, or any of that stupid Afterschool Special crap. It was just…the two of them, hanging out and talking smack about the characters, and having popcorn and pillow fights. It was just a lot of laughs; a moment in time that they hadn’t been fighting or playing games, or tearing each other up.
She wakes up feeling warm, and comfortable, and happy. For all of five minutes. Until she remembers.
In her dreams, Aaron’s a toddler.
Claire’s never spent much time around kids; she’s not sure how she’d know what Aaron will be like as a toddler. Nonetheless, the memories are there, years that do not actually exist and experiences she’s never had. In the part of her mind that knows she’s sleeping, she’s amused.
But on the other hand, Aaron simply will not stay where he’s put. He crawls or runs on chubby toddler’s legs towards every precipice, every sharp rock, every deep pocket of water with fierce and unwavering determination. And she, dutiful mother--weird, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever quite get used to that--must chase after him, often rescuing him only inches or moments from impending disaster.
All kids have talents, right? Seems like trouble’s been Aaron’s, right from the start.
In the dream, they both need sunscreen. She hands Aaron to Charlie. “Hold on to him for a tick, will you?” she asks, impatient.
“Yeah, sure, sure,” Charlie answers.
She turns away-for just a second, she’d swear--to dig up some of the sunscreen she got out of Sawyer’s discards, and when she turns back, Charlie’s sitting on a log, picking out a song on his guitar, Hurley nodding in time to the beat.
“Charlie!” She can’t believe it. What the hell?
Charlie looks up, startled, and his hands still on the strings. He’s got new bandages on. These say GONE. “What?”
“You were supposed to be watching Aaron,” she reminds him. She’s not afraid, not yet, but the checks in the mail, no question. Her stomach turns a little. There’s an explanation, she thinks. Charlie wouldn’t just flake like that. There’s got to be a reason.
Doesn’t there?
Charlie shrugs. “Got away from me, little bugger,” he answers, and goes back to his tunes. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”
Part of her wants to read him the riot act, and another part wants to kill him for being so damn irresponsible when he knows how she worries, but she hasn’t got time for either. Not with Aaron missing.
She goes around the camp and asks them all. Sun looks sympathetic and Jack looks sad, but those are pretty much their stock expressions and worthless for all of that. No one offers to help, and she finds herself getting more frantic as the moments spin by.
“Aaron! Aaron!” It’s no good; he’s not like Walt-now-Shannon’s dog. Aaron hasn’t yet learnt to come when called. But she can’t think of anything else to do, as she searches in the caves and out, inside rotting logs, and catch basins. “Aaron, please!”
Finally, she thinks she glimpses him-something-from the corner of her eye in the trees. “Aaron!” She goes tearing after him, her heart hammering in her chest to the beat of two names.
Ethan-Danielle, Ethan-Danielle, Ethan-Danielle…
No, she thinks. Not again. Aaron, please; not again!
But she’s not even sure what that means.
She gets a glimpse of his head-tow-colored like hers-and hears a joyful toddler’s giggle, and doubles her speed.
The jungle is thicker here. Vines tangle her feet and branches tear at her hair and scratch bloody welts in her arms. Still, she can see him, just ahead of her (always just ahead of her), and if she can just go a little faster for a little longer, she’ll catch him, she has to catch him, terrible things will happen if she doesn’t catch him…
Claire lurches awake, gasping as hard as if she really has been running. In the crib Locke made, Aaron is still asleep, still an infant. On the other side, Charlie is sleeping as well, one hand pushed through the bars to rest on Aaron’s round little belly, silent reassurance. As she watches, Aaron’s lips purse, suck idly on an imaginary nipple for a few seconds, then slack again into deeper sleep.
Claire covers her face in her hands and breathes. She’s sweating; she can smell herself, and the smell is not pleasant. She’s also desperately thirsty. With one last look at them, she crawls off her bedding and staggers to the catch basin.
She’s drunk herself nearly sick and is splashing water over her face and hair when she hears a noise behind her in the leaves. Claire whirls with a gasp, fingers groping in the dirt for a weapon, rock or stick…anything.
But it’s only Shannon, looking as wretched as she feels. The two women regard each other a second and something passes between them, a moment. Then Shannon falls to her knees at the water’s edge and drinks, scooping cold water over the back of her neck. Finally, she sits back on her heels and looks at Claire again.
Realizing she’s been staring, Claire looks aside. She’s too tired, and too stupid with exhaustion to be truly social.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Shannon’s voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying again.
Claire shakes her head. “Nah.”
Shannon nods. “Yeah. Sleep sucks.”
Claire smiled. “Sure does.”
Rating: PG-13 (little language)
Character: Shannon, Claire, minor appearances by others.
Pairing: None
Word Count: 1201
Warning: Post S1. Pre S2.
If it’d been a bad dream, a nightmare, Shannon doesn’t think she’d be wigged half so much.
Boone wouldn’t believe it. She walks around in a daze, propelled mostly by Sayid’s hand on her arm, or Walt’s dog tugging on its leash. She has no momentum of her own. She’s cried, for heaven’s sake; cried herself sick and breathless until even Sun’s eucalyptus tisanes are no help. Who knew she had it in her?
But she would understand a nightmare. A nightmare would make sense. She likes it when things make sense, even if it’s only her funky version of it. But this…
It was so long ago.
And so stupid.
She doesn’t even remember why she was home. She usually avoided the house as much as humanly possible, even before Boone decided he was desperately in love with her and became such a whiny little toad.
But she remembers coming home and finding him sprawled on the floor in front of the big-screen in a T-shirt and boxers, ginormous bowl of popcorn balanced expertly on his belly. On the screen, some scantily clad twit in the ugliest shoes Shannon’s ever seen is trying to outrun a zombie and doing a piss-poor job of it. As usual.
“Lovely,” Shannon comments and leans on the doorjamb. “They won’t even need to hold Nerdcoming Queen elections this year, hon-you’re a shoo-in.”
Boone rolls his eyes up at her. “Oh, put a sock in it, Bitcherella. Why don’t you try for one night to be a human being? C’mon. You love zombie movies.”
And she does. “Oh, all right,” she sighs-to both their surprise-and comes to sit next to him on the floor. “Scoot over. And give me some popcorn.”
It wasn’t a big deal, or a “special” moment, or any of that stupid Afterschool Special crap. It was just…the two of them, hanging out and talking smack about the characters, and having popcorn and pillow fights. It was just a lot of laughs; a moment in time that they hadn’t been fighting or playing games, or tearing each other up.
She wakes up feeling warm, and comfortable, and happy. For all of five minutes. Until she remembers.
In her dreams, Aaron’s a toddler.
Claire’s never spent much time around kids; she’s not sure how she’d know what Aaron will be like as a toddler. Nonetheless, the memories are there, years that do not actually exist and experiences she’s never had. In the part of her mind that knows she’s sleeping, she’s amused.
But on the other hand, Aaron simply will not stay where he’s put. He crawls or runs on chubby toddler’s legs towards every precipice, every sharp rock, every deep pocket of water with fierce and unwavering determination. And she, dutiful mother--weird, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever quite get used to that--must chase after him, often rescuing him only inches or moments from impending disaster.
All kids have talents, right? Seems like trouble’s been Aaron’s, right from the start.
In the dream, they both need sunscreen. She hands Aaron to Charlie. “Hold on to him for a tick, will you?” she asks, impatient.
“Yeah, sure, sure,” Charlie answers.
She turns away-for just a second, she’d swear--to dig up some of the sunscreen she got out of Sawyer’s discards, and when she turns back, Charlie’s sitting on a log, picking out a song on his guitar, Hurley nodding in time to the beat.
“Charlie!” She can’t believe it. What the hell?
Charlie looks up, startled, and his hands still on the strings. He’s got new bandages on. These say GONE. “What?”
“You were supposed to be watching Aaron,” she reminds him. She’s not afraid, not yet, but the checks in the mail, no question. Her stomach turns a little. There’s an explanation, she thinks. Charlie wouldn’t just flake like that. There’s got to be a reason.
Doesn’t there?
Charlie shrugs. “Got away from me, little bugger,” he answers, and goes back to his tunes. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”
Part of her wants to read him the riot act, and another part wants to kill him for being so damn irresponsible when he knows how she worries, but she hasn’t got time for either. Not with Aaron missing.
She goes around the camp and asks them all. Sun looks sympathetic and Jack looks sad, but those are pretty much their stock expressions and worthless for all of that. No one offers to help, and she finds herself getting more frantic as the moments spin by.
“Aaron! Aaron!” It’s no good; he’s not like Walt-now-Shannon’s dog. Aaron hasn’t yet learnt to come when called. But she can’t think of anything else to do, as she searches in the caves and out, inside rotting logs, and catch basins. “Aaron, please!”
Finally, she thinks she glimpses him-something-from the corner of her eye in the trees. “Aaron!” She goes tearing after him, her heart hammering in her chest to the beat of two names.
Ethan-Danielle, Ethan-Danielle, Ethan-Danielle…
No, she thinks. Not again. Aaron, please; not again!
But she’s not even sure what that means.
She gets a glimpse of his head-tow-colored like hers-and hears a joyful toddler’s giggle, and doubles her speed.
The jungle is thicker here. Vines tangle her feet and branches tear at her hair and scratch bloody welts in her arms. Still, she can see him, just ahead of her (always just ahead of her), and if she can just go a little faster for a little longer, she’ll catch him, she has to catch him, terrible things will happen if she doesn’t catch him…
Claire lurches awake, gasping as hard as if she really has been running. In the crib Locke made, Aaron is still asleep, still an infant. On the other side, Charlie is sleeping as well, one hand pushed through the bars to rest on Aaron’s round little belly, silent reassurance. As she watches, Aaron’s lips purse, suck idly on an imaginary nipple for a few seconds, then slack again into deeper sleep.
Claire covers her face in her hands and breathes. She’s sweating; she can smell herself, and the smell is not pleasant. She’s also desperately thirsty. With one last look at them, she crawls off her bedding and staggers to the catch basin.
She’s drunk herself nearly sick and is splashing water over her face and hair when she hears a noise behind her in the leaves. Claire whirls with a gasp, fingers groping in the dirt for a weapon, rock or stick…anything.
But it’s only Shannon, looking as wretched as she feels. The two women regard each other a second and something passes between them, a moment. Then Shannon falls to her knees at the water’s edge and drinks, scooping cold water over the back of her neck. Finally, she sits back on her heels and looks at Claire again.
Realizing she’s been staring, Claire looks aside. She’s too tired, and too stupid with exhaustion to be truly social.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Shannon’s voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying again.
Claire shakes her head. “Nah.”
Shannon nods. “Yeah. Sleep sucks.”
Claire smiled. “Sure does.”