Fic: A Sign of the Times (Jack)
Title: A Sign of the Times
Character: Jack
Rating: PG
Word Count: 421
Summary: The island is calling for Jack.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Charlie’s dialogue is from the Pilot pt. 1.
Spoilers: Through The Life and Death of Jeremy Bentham
A/N: Written for siluria who requested “bad weather.” This is my first time writing Jack, hopefully I didn’t mess him up too badly. I hope you like it!
Jack leaves the hospital early the day John Locke shows up in his ER. He wants nothing more than to go home and pour himself a glass of scotch and try to forget the ghost that had fallen out of the sky. As he leaves, he tries not to think of John’s words. He tries not to think of his father, dead and walking, somewhere out there an ocean away, sending him messages when he has no right to be speaking at all.
Above him the sky is blue and clear. It’s another sunny day in Los Angeles, not a rain cloud in sight. But as he drives home, the sky begins to darken. A memory of the island comes floating unbidden to the surface. Charlie a few paces behind him, “Hey guys, is this normal? Sort of, day turning into night? You know, end of the world type weather?”
When he reaches home the storm breaks. Thunder rumbles, shaking the ground beneath him and fat raindrops pour from the sky with a fury. He stands by his car and tilts his head to the sky. Each drop stings his face and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. If he didn’t know better he would say he smelled the jungle in the air, that strange mix of salt and dirt that used to cling to all of them until it became commonplace.
A sign, he thinks. A portent. But he doesn’t believe in such things, doesn’t want to. The island is a place and place can not call to you. It’s not rational. It’s not real. His clothes are sopping wet, clinging to his skin. He makes the short walk to his door, fishing his keys out of his pocket on the way. As he slips the key into the lock, he hears a whisper on the wind. Come back. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him. He shakes his head, and thinks he must be going crazy.
He shuts his door to the storm. Inside he peels off his wet clothes and pours his glass of scotch. The drink warms him until the strange events of the afternoon seem far away. Outside, the storm stops as suddenly as it started. It wasn’t a sign, he thinks, it was just rain. Still the smell of salt and dirt fills the air and Locke’s voice echoes in his head, “We have to go back, Jack.”
With a shaking hand he pours himself another glass of scotch.