Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3hitlikehammersApril 23 2010, 01:05:57 UTC
Boone’s booked to leave for Europe -- some fashion conference that Jack’s inevitably forgotten the details of, beyond the aching knowledge that whatever it is, it means that Boone will be gone and Jack will be alone in the interim.
Something about it doesn’t feel right, though, more than just the separation; and Jack finds himself distracted, his blood pumping harder, faster as his scalpel breaks skin -- so when Ajira 316 lands safely in Milan, there’s a weight that lifts from his shoulders, the text message from Boone’s number comforting, though not as much as his voice through the line minutes later, thousands of miles away, right next to him; his laugh ringing through Jack’s chest as he sighs, as the tension seeps from his pores and he falls into the chair behind his desk, his fingers slicked with sweat from the lights in the OR, from the fear behind his every cut as he runs his hands through his hair and breathes, just breathes.
There was nothing to worry about.
And knowing that, believing that; it feels like a brand new world, somehow -- a fresh start after all of it, everything; and Jack feels like he needs that, though he can’t figure out why -- like he’s done enough unspeakable wrongs in his life to damn himself to hell thrice over. Like he needs redemption, a clean slate. Tabula rasa.
Jack writes down the info for Boone’s return flight less as a reminder -- he’d committed it to memory before dropping him off at LAX in the first place -- and more for the anticipation of looking down and seeing it, of being able to smile at the thought that, in just three days, he could pick the man he... the man he cared for most in the world; he could pick him upon at the Oceanic baggage claim, touch his skin and catch his scent.
Flight 815. It didn’t seem far away, anymore.
It almost feels like he’s forgetting something as he studies his scrawl on the post-it, the numbers scraped dark on the yellow square; whatever it is, though, it can’t be too important.
Else, you know; he’d remember it.
_____________
Some things never change.
They share their mornings, their evenings; the minutes in between their hectic schedules and separate lives until the space between is insignificant, infinitesimal compared to the overlap, the places where they mesh and blend. They live together, for all intents and purposes, and for the first time in his life, Jack thinks that maybe some things are worth it, some things can end happily, if only because they don’t have to end at all. For the first time in his life, Jack entertains the idea of forever; for the first time, Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he won’t die alone.
Suddenly, Jack finds himself averse to the beach, he can’t explain the logic of it; Boone smokes, sometimes, but he flinches every time his lighter spits fire. The reasons are things that they’ve buried; things that maybe never existed in the first place. They live it, though; there’s no reason to question the details when the whole has turned out pretty damn good, all things considered.
Jack thinks it’s endearing that Boone always carries not one, not two, but three different pens at all times, clicking the mechanical one he always favors -- always picks first -- in a rhythm that matches that of his heart when he sleeps. Not that Boone would know it.
Not that Jack understands why.
Sometimes, when Jack leans in close, kisses Boone goodbye, goodnight, hello, kisses Boone for not reason at all; sometimes, he smells of chlorine, of bleach where he should smell of seaweed and salt; but no. He shouldn’t.
Of course he shouldn’t.
Boone’s afraid of heights, now; his guard chair being the highest he’ll willingly go, these days. Which is just fine, really, because Jack’s just as frightened of the idea of Boone being too far off the ground. In fact, when he thinks about it, the unmistakable tang of iron settles onto his tongue, turns his stomach. He thinks that’s a sign.
He was never a man to give much credence to signs, though. Not before, at least.
And while some things never change; other things? Other things sometimes do.
Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3ozmissageApril 23 2010, 15:31:10 UTC
This may or may not have reduced me to a crying mess of fangirl (it definitely did.)
Everything about this is simply perfect. It's so lyrical and haunting and still sweet and happy. I love the way you fit the two worlds together, how they remember, but don't all at once. So many parts gave me goosebumps, this one in particular made all shivery in the best possible way:
when their gazes meets through glass, something snaps in him, something forgotten, flooding and overflowing; something critical.
Boone, that’s the man’s name; and somehow, when Jack lets the sound, the syllable slip silently through his mind, it falls against the backdrop of rolling waves, the slush of sand underfoot, the rustle of leaves and a heat that’s only half the sun.
This whole fic is simply stunning and it captures everything I love about these two. They feel so settled and oh wait, I have to quote this too because it made me feel so warm and hopeful (and also because this is exactly how I want this show to end, with everyone feeling exactly like this):
They live together, for all intents and purposes, and for the first time in his life, Jack thinks that maybe some things are worth it, some things can end happily, if only because they don’t have to end at all. For the first time in his life, Jack entertains the idea of forever; for the first time, Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he won’t die alone.
Your Jack voice is a thing of beauty my dear. The bit about having made enough mistakes to send him to hell thrice over was so him. All of it was in fact, every emotion, every doubt and hope.
Thank you so, so much for this! These guys really are my Lost slash OTP and this fic gave them such a wonderful, fully realized happily ever after. I need to go read it again now. :D
Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3haldoor_honeyApril 28 2010, 07:54:42 UTC
Oh, this is gorgeous! So lush, and beautifully wound together with the Lost we know and yet somehow isn't theirs while still being something they remember. Absolutely gorgeous! ;-)
Something about it doesn’t feel right, though, more than just the separation; and Jack finds himself distracted, his blood pumping harder, faster as his scalpel breaks skin -- so when Ajira 316 lands safely in Milan, there’s a weight that lifts from his shoulders, the text message from Boone’s number comforting, though not as much as his voice through the line minutes later, thousands of miles away, right next to him; his laugh ringing through Jack’s chest as he sighs, as the tension seeps from his pores and he falls into the chair behind his desk, his fingers slicked with sweat from the lights in the OR, from the fear behind his every cut as he runs his hands through his hair and breathes, just breathes.
There was nothing to worry about.
And knowing that, believing that; it feels like a brand new world, somehow -- a fresh start after all of it, everything; and Jack feels like he needs that, though he can’t figure out why -- like he’s done enough unspeakable wrongs in his life to damn himself to hell thrice over. Like he needs redemption, a clean slate. Tabula rasa.
Jack writes down the info for Boone’s return flight less as a reminder -- he’d committed it to memory before dropping him off at LAX in the first place -- and more for the anticipation of looking down and seeing it, of being able to smile at the thought that, in just three days, he could pick the man he... the man he cared for most in the world; he could pick him upon at the Oceanic baggage claim, touch his skin and catch his scent.
Flight 815. It didn’t seem far away, anymore.
It almost feels like he’s forgetting something as he studies his scrawl on the post-it, the numbers scraped dark on the yellow square; whatever it is, though, it can’t be too important.
Else, you know; he’d remember it.
_____________
Some things never change.
They share their mornings, their evenings; the minutes in between their hectic schedules and separate lives until the space between is insignificant, infinitesimal compared to the overlap, the places where they mesh and blend. They live together, for all intents and purposes, and for the first time in his life, Jack thinks that maybe some things are worth it, some things can end happily, if only because they don’t have to end at all. For the first time in his life, Jack entertains the idea of forever; for the first time, Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he won’t die alone.
Suddenly, Jack finds himself averse to the beach, he can’t explain the logic of it; Boone smokes, sometimes, but he flinches every time his lighter spits fire. The reasons are things that they’ve buried; things that maybe never existed in the first place. They live it, though; there’s no reason to question the details when the whole has turned out pretty damn good, all things considered.
Jack thinks it’s endearing that Boone always carries not one, not two, but three different pens at all times, clicking the mechanical one he always favors -- always picks first -- in a rhythm that matches that of his heart when he sleeps. Not that Boone would know it.
Not that Jack understands why.
Sometimes, when Jack leans in close, kisses Boone goodbye, goodnight, hello, kisses Boone for not reason at all; sometimes, he smells of chlorine, of bleach where he should smell of seaweed and salt; but no. He shouldn’t.
Of course he shouldn’t.
Boone’s afraid of heights, now; his guard chair being the highest he’ll willingly go, these days. Which is just fine, really, because Jack’s just as frightened of the idea of Boone being too far off the ground. In fact, when he thinks about it, the unmistakable tang of iron settles onto his tongue, turns his stomach. He thinks that’s a sign.
He was never a man to give much credence to signs, though. Not before, at least.
And while some things never change; other things? Other things sometimes do.
Not that they’d know it.
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Everything about this is simply perfect. It's so lyrical and haunting and still sweet and happy. I love the way you fit the two worlds together, how they remember, but don't all at once. So many parts gave me goosebumps, this one in particular made all shivery in the best possible way:
when their gazes meets through glass, something snaps in him, something forgotten, flooding and overflowing; something critical.
Boone, that’s the man’s name; and somehow, when Jack lets the sound, the syllable slip silently through his mind, it falls against the backdrop of rolling waves, the slush of sand underfoot, the rustle of leaves and a heat that’s only half the sun.
This whole fic is simply stunning and it captures everything I love about these two. They feel so settled and oh wait, I have to quote this too because it made me feel so warm and hopeful (and also because this is exactly how I want this show to end, with everyone feeling exactly like this):
They live together, for all intents and purposes, and for the first time in his life, Jack thinks that maybe some things are worth it, some things can end happily, if only because they don’t have to end at all. For the first time in his life, Jack entertains the idea of forever; for the first time, Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he won’t die alone.
Your Jack voice is a thing of beauty my dear. The bit about having made enough mistakes to send him to hell thrice over was so him. All of it was in fact, every emotion, every doubt and hope.
Thank you so, so much for this! These guys really are my Lost slash OTP and this fic gave them such a wonderful, fully realized happily ever after. I need to go read it again now. :D
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