Lost Fic: the son and daughter of a hungry ghost (Jack/Claire)
Title: the son and daughter of a hungry ghost
Pairing: Jack/Claire
Rating: PG-13
Words: 550
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title adapted from a Wolf Parade song.
Summary: They can’t run forever. (But they can try.) AU.
A/N: Written for crickets who requested Jack/Claire + “they're whispering his name through this disappearing land (but hidden in his coat is a red right hand).” Happy Halloween! <3
They drive long into the night, headlights cutting through the gloom, lighting the way for their latest great escape. Claire never thought of herself as a runner. Not before when she was buying drapes and tiny little socks and preparing to settle, to be settled, but now she knows it was always in her blood (because it’s in his blood.)
Jack sleeps like a dead man. Curled into himself, head nestled against the window, he doesn’t make a sound. Claire resists the urge to check if he’s breathing. He never sleeps anymore; she had to fight him to relinquish the keys in the first place. She turns the radio up a notch to drown out the silence.
She focuses on the road, pushes away thoughts of the last town, the last visit (you can’t run forever Claire, it’s time to come home.) They left the oven on. She was making dinner, then she was throwing things into their suitcase. She wonders if the house burned to the ground, taking the stained, yellow couch where they fucked with it. She smiles. She hopes it did, she hated that couch.
The radio cuts out and her smile disappears. It shouldn’t be coming for them again already. The visits used to be months apart, they’re erratic now, unpredictable. The static gives way to whispers that remind her of another part of herself, the part that carried a gun on her back, that slept in the dirt and the muck, the part that waited (that’s still waiting) for someone to come.
(Let go.)
She turns the radio off.
In the rearview mirror, she sees it. Its blue suit is almost indistinguishable from the darkness, but the sneakers, pristine and white, are unmistakable. Its hand is raised like some common hitchhiker bumming a ride except for the part where it’s drenched in blood. (Always, always.)
Claire drives on, wondering if he’ll be waiting at the next hotel, the next house, the next town. She knows it won’t be long until it pulls them both back. Them and Aaron too (she’ll have to call Kate at the next stop, it seems they only speak to pass warnings these days.)The island's in their blood. Or so the devil tells them.
Jack jolts awake, groping for her from across the seat, desperate to make sure she’s still there (that he’s still here.) She catches his hand, twining their fingers together in the darkness.
“You had another nightmare?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough and sleep-worn. “Did anything happen while I was out?”
Claire turns her gaze back to the rearview mirror. The thing that’s not Christian is long gone, back to the island, back to its hell, it’s all the same.
“Not a thing.”
Jack breaths out a sigh of relief and releases her hand as he stretches across the seat. His head comes to rest on her lap.
“Wake me when you get tired,” he murmurs.
“Shh…I will, just go back to sleep. And good dreams this time, okay?”
He’s already gone. Claire hums to herself softly, too afraid to turn the radio back on just yet. It won’t catch them tonight. Not if she has anything to do with it, but deep down she knows it's only a matter of time now. She presses her foot down on the accelerator, leaving their ghost behind for one more day.
(You have to come back.)
Pairing: Jack/Claire
Rating: PG-13
Words: 550
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title adapted from a Wolf Parade song.
Summary: They can’t run forever. (But they can try.) AU.
A/N: Written for crickets who requested Jack/Claire + “they're whispering his name through this disappearing land (but hidden in his coat is a red right hand).” Happy Halloween! <3
They drive long into the night, headlights cutting through the gloom, lighting the way for their latest great escape. Claire never thought of herself as a runner. Not before when she was buying drapes and tiny little socks and preparing to settle, to be settled, but now she knows it was always in her blood (because it’s in his blood.)
Jack sleeps like a dead man. Curled into himself, head nestled against the window, he doesn’t make a sound. Claire resists the urge to check if he’s breathing. He never sleeps anymore; she had to fight him to relinquish the keys in the first place. She turns the radio up a notch to drown out the silence.
She focuses on the road, pushes away thoughts of the last town, the last visit (you can’t run forever Claire, it’s time to come home.) They left the oven on. She was making dinner, then she was throwing things into their suitcase. She wonders if the house burned to the ground, taking the stained, yellow couch where they fucked with it. She smiles. She hopes it did, she hated that couch.
The radio cuts out and her smile disappears. It shouldn’t be coming for them again already. The visits used to be months apart, they’re erratic now, unpredictable. The static gives way to whispers that remind her of another part of herself, the part that carried a gun on her back, that slept in the dirt and the muck, the part that waited (that’s still waiting) for someone to come.
(Let go.)
She turns the radio off.
In the rearview mirror, she sees it. Its blue suit is almost indistinguishable from the darkness, but the sneakers, pristine and white, are unmistakable. Its hand is raised like some common hitchhiker bumming a ride except for the part where it’s drenched in blood. (Always, always.)
Claire drives on, wondering if he’ll be waiting at the next hotel, the next house, the next town. She knows it won’t be long until it pulls them both back. Them and Aaron too (she’ll have to call Kate at the next stop, it seems they only speak to pass warnings these days.)The island's in their blood. Or so the devil tells them.
Jack jolts awake, groping for her from across the seat, desperate to make sure she’s still there (that he’s still here.) She catches his hand, twining their fingers together in the darkness.
“You had another nightmare?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough and sleep-worn. “Did anything happen while I was out?”
Claire turns her gaze back to the rearview mirror. The thing that’s not Christian is long gone, back to the island, back to its hell, it’s all the same.
“Not a thing.”
Jack breaths out a sigh of relief and releases her hand as he stretches across the seat. His head comes to rest on her lap.
“Wake me when you get tired,” he murmurs.
“Shh…I will, just go back to sleep. And good dreams this time, okay?”
He’s already gone. Claire hums to herself softly, too afraid to turn the radio back on just yet. It won’t catch them tonight. Not if she has anything to do with it, but deep down she knows it's only a matter of time now. She presses her foot down on the accelerator, leaving their ghost behind for one more day.
(You have to come back.)