Lost fic 4 - Calendar
Title: Calendar
Rating: R
Summary: For those sixty-five days. Multipairings.
Feedback: Please! I’ll reply to all reviews, I promise.
Archive: Sure, but let me know first, ‘kay?
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, so if you sue me, I will cry and your only reward will be my tears. My tears, dammit!
Author’s note: This story happened because I wanted to write a death fic, but didn’t really have a context for it. I also had a bunch of ideas for small scenes or drabbles, but not enough to turn them into full stories. When I read “31 Days” by tragictale, I got inspired to compile all my stories into one (and if you like my story - or even if you don’t - go to the Lost Fanfiction Archive and read “31 Days”, because it’s like 4000 times better than mine).
Also, I know that some of the stuff in my story isn’t possible in terms of the timeline, what with people being alive when they shouldn’t be or not kidnapped when they should be and stuff. Really, I totally know, so there’s no need to tell me ;)
Day 1
Boone isn’t shaking anymore, but Shannon is. Not surprising really, her pink skirt and strappy top don’t provide a lot of warmth. He told her to get a sweater, sitting so close to the fire is bound to aggravate her asthma. But she doesn’t like being told what to do; she’s always wanted everything her own way. When they were little, it was movies - no matter how often he’d asked to rent Mission: Impossible, they’d always ended up with The Muppets, and he’d always watched her sing along to every musical number, and mouth the character’s lines with perfect accuracy. She only really wants things that will get a reaction from him. He shrugs off the flannel button-down he’d put on over his t-shirt to ward off the nighttime chill and throws it to Shannon. Her eyes shine and a hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I so own you,” she says playfully. He smiles because he knows it’s true.
Day 4
Mr Locke laughs when Walt tells him the scar on his eye is “cool”.
Walt walks along the beach, a long stick trailing in the sand, leaving a wobbly trace of his journey.
“That’s a good idea, Walt. It’s important to know where you’re going, and where you’ve already been.”
Walt turns around just as the tide washes the long line away.
Day 8
Claire’s head doesn’t hurt anymore, and the pounding behind her eyes has stopped now that she’s in the shade. Kate is braiding her hair for her, her fingers gently untangling the knotted golden strands. The last time her hair had been intricately plaited like this was when she was eight years old. She tells Kate about that day, how her mother had given her a special hairstyle because she was going to be the angel in her class nativity play, and her hair had to look nice under the halo. Kate chuckles, and her fingers brush lightly against Claire’s neck. “I can tell you were an adorable angel.”
Claire wishes she had her halo now.
Day 15
Sun had thought a hot drink would help Charlie - at least, that was what Jack had surmised when she’d handed him the steaming tea and pointed towards the hunched-over Englishman. Jack sits down next to Charlie and holds out the tea, but Charlie just stares straight ahead and rocks back and forth. Charlie licks his lips and speaks croakily. “Bet that hurts. Your shoulder.” Jack takes in his pale skin, sunken-looking eyes, and the droplets of sweat on his forehead. He wraps his good arm around Charlie’s trembling form.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know it hurts.” They both know he isn’t talking about his shoulder. Jack drinks the tea himself.
Day 16
Sawyer’s fingers are throbbing. The puncture wounds haven’t healed over yet, and every grain of sand that gets under his nails is agonizing. Damn Arab may as well have cut his fucking hands off. He tries to unfold the letter, and curses when his tender fingers fumble the envelope. He’d never even had the damn inhalers. Why would he? Asthma meds have no value to him. Besides, he has nothing against that pretty blonde girl - Shannon, is it? She’s harmless. Sawyer has no interest in hurting her.
He narrows his eyes against the late afternoon sun and watches as Sayid walks away from the survivor’s camp. Good, he thinks. Leave.
Day 23
Claire can’t understand Jin, but she likes to hear him talk. She smiles when he shows her the fish he’s caught, and laughs when he rolls his eyes and Boone and Shannon’s arguing, or shakes his head in exasperation at Hurley and Charlie’s bungled spear fishing attempts. She used to wonder what he was saying to her, but now she knows that stupid stuff like language doesn’t matter when you’re friends. When she feels the baby moving she grabs Jin’s hand and presses his palm to her stomach. This time he doesn’t pull away. His thumb rubs gently where the baby’s kicking her, and she hopes Jin will come and talk to her again tomorrow.
Day 28
“You dumb dog!” Walt laughs as Vincent looks back and forth, confused. The stick Walt threw for him landed in the nearby pile of kindling, and Vincent has no idea which one is his. Sayid chuckles, picks up the chewed-looking piece of beechwood and flings it down the beach. Vincent darts after it, and Walt waves in thanks. “Hey, you wanna play?”
Sayid appreciates the invitation, and when Vincent bounds back towards him, soaking wet with the stick in his mouth, Sayid figures he’d better accept. He throws the stick again, and Vincent races into the surf. Walt and Sayid follow, waiting for the Labrador at the edge of the waves. “He likes you,” Walt says. Sayid smiles.
“I think he likes everyone.” He’s watching the dog again, and Vincent has spotted Sun walking along the shoreline. He jumps at the tiny Korean woman, joyfully showering her with salt water.
“Vincent!” she admonishes, and Walt attempts to restrain his dog. But Sun is laughing, and in his enthusiasm, Vincent knocks Walt into the shallow water. Sayid laughs too, and Walt splashes him.
“Now we’re all wet!”
Sun looks happy, and Sayid knows that she doesn’t care if Jin approves. He scratches the dog’s ears, and suddenly he’s glad that Vincent likes everyone.
Day 31
When Boone was nervous or agitated, he moved. Drummed his fingers, swam laps, raced up and down a tennis court. Right now he’s pressed to the ground, so he strokes Kate’s back and runs his fingers through her tangled hair. “Mmm,” she moans against his mouth and grabs his wrist, pinning it above his head. “You’re too damn nervous.” She breathes against his neck and licks his ear. “Relax.” Her hand slides between them and wraps around his cock. His breath catches in his chest and there’s no way he can relax now. He’s not used to this. Shannon is innocent, Californian teenage angst, peach flavored cocktails, soft cashmere. Kate is dangerous - she’s a shot of Johnny Walker and a Def Leppard song. She’s moaning, a soft, growling sound in the back of her throat, and rocking her hips against his.
“Yeah. Oh, oh god, yeah,” he whispers, he’s getting so close, and he can’t believe he’s thinking about Shannon and not Kate. His muscles tense and he comes, and he stops thinking about either of them. Right now he’s just hoping Sawyer never finds out.
Day 36
Jack knows it won’t be long now. Another few hours maybe, half a day at most. The little bundle called Aaron is stiller, quieter than he has been in days. Jack had convinced Claire to go for a walk, give him a few minutes alone so he could help Aaron. But he knows he can’t, and the island is too bright, obnoxiously vibrant. Like it’s feeding off him, stealing the tiny life from Jack’s arms. There’s a fever, but no heat; his eyes are cloudy, but he stopped crying hours ago. Jack knows it won’t be long, and doesn’t know what more he can do. Eventually he’ll break, that he’s sure of. He won’t be the only one - Michael’s eyes will widen in horror at the news. Shannon won’t sleep tonight. Hurley will cry.
And Claire will scream, her piercing shrieks echoing in his ears as he struggles to restrain her while she fights and thrashes hysterically. Tonight Jack will hold the wailing, violently grieving mother of the baby he can’t save. But eventually he’ll break.
He knows it won’t be long now.
Day 37
Jack keeps saying to leave her alone and give her space to grieve. Apparently she “needs time away from the group right now; having everyone around will only overwhelm her.” Well, space be damned - this isn’t healthy. She’s been sitting on the beach for over fourteen hours. And as for time. . . Sawyer shakes his head as he approaches her. If time did shit he’d be free by now, not carrying around twenty seven years of anger and a letter filled with regret.
She’s way too still, staring at the ocean and whimpering softly. She doesn’t look up when he sits next to her, and shit, this is a mistake, how is anything he could say going to help? He should leave, but he can’t - he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a kid, but if it’s anything like being a kid and losing a mother. . . . well, like he said, space be damned.
“Aaron . . .” she moans, and she’s shivering, why is she so damned thin? He can feel the bones of her spine, and he’s only just realized that he reached out and took her in his arms. She’s crying hard and seems to be slipping out of his grasp, so he squeezes her tightly, cradling her against his chest.
“I gotcha honey,” he says quietly, though how in the hell that’s supposed to mean anything he has no idea. She still feels like she’s collapsing, and he’d hold her closer if he could, but there’s no point - she’ll feel like this for the next twenty seven years at least. Time doesn’t heal a goddamn thing.
Day 42
Walt wants to cuddle Claire. To him it’s so simple - she’s sad, he wants to help her feel better. Michael doesn’t have the heart to tell his son the truth; that nothing will help Claire feel better - or feel anything. He can’t think of a way to tell Walt that being around a child is probably the last thing the poor girl needs right now. So he mumbles something about giving her space, leaving her alone, come on man, let’s take Vincent for a walk. The lab is panting at his side, but Walt isn’t there. Michael scans the beach, and sure enough, there he is outside Claire’s shelter, his arms wound around her neck. Michael shields the sun from his eyes and tries to see what’s happening. Claire pulls away slightly. She’s talking to him. She’s barely said a word in days, but now she’s speaking to his boy. Walt nods, stands up, and hurries down to Michael and Vincent at the waterline. Michael knows he shouldn’t pry, but he can’t help it. “Hey, Walt. What’d she say to you man?”
Walt shrugs. “Not much. She just asked if I’d go see her before I go to bed tonight.”
“Really? That’s all?”
“Yep. She wants me to give her another hug and say goodnight. I said I would.” He picks up the rope that serves as Vincent’s makeshift leash. “Come on boy!”
As they bound happily along the edge of the waves, Michael stares after his son in wonder. Where has this compassion come from? How is a ten year old capable of such empathy?
Michael wishes he could say Walt got it from him.
Day 46
Locke breathes deeply as he hikes. When the cold air stings his throat, he breathes deeper. When his legs ache, he puts his head down, lengthens his strides, and pushes himself to walk faster. He’s missed this. Whatever’s happened - and however it’s happened - he’s not going to waste it. He’s grateful for this chance, and he owes it to himself - and to the island - to do what’s right. So he hikes, following the boar tracks, and thinking about the pain he’s missed so much. It’s not a big deal in the scheme of things, but it’s the little things he finds himself missing the most - or not missing. Of all he’s left behind, it’s things like the laundry that makes him crack a smile. He doesn’t mind washing clothes, but hates the chore of folding, sorting, and putting them away. He’d usually pile them neatly on a chaise, with every intention of returning them to the closet, but the next day he’d hurriedly grab a shirt and tie for work, and upset the tidy stacks. This would go on for days until everything was unfolded, wrinkled, and impossible to find. He doesn’t miss that.
He misses reading the newspaper, which he knows is stupid - what would be the point out here? Be he’d always liked the simple, unbiased articles in his local newspaper. He wasn’t a fan of the big broadsheets - the Times, Tribune and Herald were too impersonal. The Deene had a picture of a meerkat with a stick pointing to each weather report, and the print blackened his hands when the paperboy threw it on the lawn on dewy mornings. He misses having inky fingers. But he likes being free. Knowing he can go back to the beach tonight, cook some boar meat and sleep under the stars gives him the same feeling he used to get when he’d tell himself to forget about that report Randy wanted the next day, throw his tie on the clothes pile and watch an episode of Friends. Sooner or later, he’s certain there’ll be more to think about - the Others, the raft, and especially the hatch, which he knows the island will open for him. And of course, he knows he’ll have to give something in return. But for now, it’s enough that he’s free, so he keeps walking. After all, he’s missed this.
Day 47
Jin left yesterday, but Sun isn’t going to be scared. She’s in her garden, playing a game to keep her mind off everything. She’s remembering the words she wrote for her husband and planting a seed for the ones she forgot. Like “flower” - that’s an important one. As soon as he gets back, she’ll teach him that. He’ll remember it easily, she knows, and plants a papaya seed.
“Diamond”, however, is not important. She’s never needed sparkling jewels, and Jin understands that now, so she pushes a guava seed into the earth. She plants another papaya seed for “puppy” - Jin loves Popo nearly as much as she does. But “wristwatch” gets a guava seed. Anything he once did for her father doesn’t belong on the island, and she’s glad Jin never knew the word that earned him a handcuff looped around his wrist.
Another papaya seed marks the word “kiss” - he’ll definitely want to know that word, and Sun will make sure he never forgets it. She smiles and imagines teaching him the meaning, hoping he won’t catch on too quickly - she’d like to demonstrate it many times for him.
The last guava seed is for “honour” - Jin has his back now, so the word is meaningless. That seed is pushed deep into the ground, and Sun wonders if it will even grow - she adds an extra handful of soil, and presses until it’s compacted firmly, just to be sure.
There’s a dozen or so papaya seeds left, and Sun doesn’t want to plant just one for “love” - but somehow no amount will be enough. She slides them into a folded piece of paper and puts it in her pocket. These can wait. She’ll hold on to them until Jin comes home.
Day 50
Charlie feels a lot better. The burning in his sinuses is gone, and he doesn’t even notice the sticky heat anymore. It used to drive him crazy, being so different from the Liverpool chills he’s grown up with. Now he doesn’t care.
The new people haven’t had any music for over a month, so they’re glad to be near him. During the day he plays familiar tunes to make people happy - yesterday he sang “American Pie” with Libby, who has an unexpected knack for harmonizing. The day before, he played every Beatles song he could remember, including “All You Need Is Love” for Rose and Bernard, who held hands and thanked him afterwards. But nighttime is for his own music - he’s writing a new album, an album of monsters and planes, of yellow dogs and falling stars. He’ll write a song for everything. He’ll ask Shannon to translate some lyrics into French for a song he’ll title either “Alex” or “Danielle”. He’s nearly finished the second verse of “I Read Your Diary”, and “Our Lady Danger” is coming along nicely too. It won’t all be doom and gloom - when they get rescued, he’ll ask Hurley to come to the studio with him and scream in the background of “Ballad Of A Sea Urchin”. He doesn’t have a tune or any words in mind for “Hit Like A Ponce”, but he’d like to write it, just because he can. He’ll write a song for everyone on the album he’ll call “Aaron’s Island”.
Day 53
Rough tree bark is scraping at Shannon’s back, but she barely notices. Her hands are practiced and efficient, working expertly at belt buckles, denim and zippers. The warm hand sliding under her skirt grasps her hip, the writhing body stills suddenly. “Shannon-”
“Please,” she whispers urgently “just shut up.” Their kisses are hard and merciless; skillful fingertips tease her nipples. Her blue cotton tank shirt is crumpled on the ground beside her, and Shannon watches the moonlight on the folds and wrinkles as her skirt is roughly pushed up. She stares up at a gap in the canopy, and for a second she’s distanced from the dark silky hair now brushing gently against her thighs. “Oh, god,” she whimpers desperately at the soft, caressing pressure on her clit. She’s still staring at the sky and she can see the stars. She climaxes with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a soft scream, her legs are trembling and tears stream from the outside corners of her eyes and down to her neck. For a few seconds her whole body is warm, but Ana is already leaving.
Day 54
Hurley is on hatch duty when she comes in. He doesn’t hear her at first. He’s busy remembering all his favourite bands, trying to make a mental list of what he’d like to listen to first when he gets home. He’s almost decided on The Clash when Ana-Lucia comes in. Her eyes are red and watery, so he stares at the floor, and tries to pretend he hasn’t seen her. He likes The Clash, probably more than he likes Radiohead, but more than the Ramones? He isn’t sure.
Ana’s hands are on his wrist; she’s moving his large, heavy arm and squeezing onto the sofa beside him. She places his arm over her shoulder and leans on his chest. Hurley isn’t sure what to do, so he sits quietly with his arm around her until Ana looks up at him, her eyes wet and shining. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
He won’t.
Day 56
When Kate was younger, she’d liked Enid Blyton. Especially the boarding school stories - it had always seemed like such an adventure, leaving home and living with a big group of people like the girls at Mallory Towers did. Now though, she isn’t so sure. Living with such a crowd only seems to remind her how much she likes her own space - though when Hurley gave out food the other night, she couldn’t help thinking of Darrell, Sally, Alicia and the others enjoying a midnight feast by the pool while the mistresses were asleep.
Before he was taken, Kate had thought of telling Walt these stories, or at least what she knew of them from memory, but he’d probably have considered them too girly - or too geeky, because they were so old. But Kate had always been, like her Dad said “from another era”. She loved his old Sinatra records, and would complain when her Mom played Tanya Tucker or Tammy Wynette like everyone else in the neighbourhood. To Kate it was white trash music, and she knew her Mom was better than that. She’d never say it out loud of course - she restricted herself to rolling her eyes and making a point of putting her hands over her ears during the high notes. Her Mom always defended it.
“It’s better than that crusty old has-been your Pop likes - man sounds like Mitchy when he howls at the moon,” she’d say, referring to the neighbour’s basset hound. Her Dad would pretend to be offended, then wink at Kate and make her laugh. When Mom finally went to work, they’d play Sinatra, sing, dance around the living room, and howl like Mitchy until Kate couldn’t even remember what Tanya and Tammy sounded like anymore.
“You’re a classy broad, little Katie,” he’d say to her, and read her a chapter of Mallory Towers before she went to bed.
Kate sighs and stokes the fire. There’s no one here to tell her stories, and no one for her to tell them to. She can’t remember the words to any Sinatra songs, so she hums a Tanya Tucker chorus instead. She might as well - there’s no one here to dance with.
Day 62
Jack yawns as he trudges wearily along the tree line. He’s only been gone for two minutes, but already someone else - Sun this time - wants to ask him a question. Sure, no problem, he’ll check out her ear ache just as soon as he’s dealt with Sullivan, he just needs more calamine lotion first. Sun isn’t in the least impatient; she smiles gratefully and goes to wait for him at his shelter. Yet Jack still wishes, for about the tenth time today, that he’d become a fireman instead of a doctor. Or an antiques dealer. A shoe salesman. Garbage collector. Anything that meant he wouldn’t have to do this.
Sawyer’s inside his shelter, but the tarp that usually closes it off is wide open, allowing sunlight to fill the area. He’s a golden-brown colour, and Jack’s torn between wanting to tell him to put sunscreen on, and wanting to smack him upside the head for looking so relaxed.
“Howdy Doc,” Sawyer drawls. “You look like shit.”
“Do you have anymore calamine lotion?” Jack ignores the bait. Sparring is not on today’s agenda.
“You’re the one who beat me, High-Roller,” he grins. “In case you forgot, I gave you all the meds”.
“I know. I just figured I’d ask because…” because we’re friends now, Jack wants to add. “Forget it. Thanks anyway.” He starts to leave, but Sawyer’s voice draws him back,
“Hey, Jack. I’m fresh out of calamine, but I got half a shelter space if you want a break from your patients.”
“
I can’t. Sun has an earache, and Sullivan has another weird rash -”
“Is he gonna die in the next ten minutes?”
Jack sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Not unless someone strangles him.”
“Well then,” Sawyer gestures to the space next to him. “Pull up a patch of sand.”
The shelter is warm and inviting, and before his conscience can stop him, Jack is lying on his back, stretched out next to Sawyer, and Sullivan seems just a little further away. He stretches his neck trying to get comfortable, and barely notices that Sawyer has wrapped an arm around him, drawing him into his shoulder.
“World ain’t gonna end if you take a breather, Doc,” Sawyer says. Jack’s resting comfortably on Sawyer’s shoulder, and as long as the sun stays warm and the ocean keeps lapping rhythmically, the world can go to hell for all he cares. He closes his eyes and tries to block out all thoughts of the camp, the crash, and the calamine lotion - everything except the salty breeze, soft sand, and Sawyer’s fingers which are kneading the stiff column of muscles in his neck. Yawning again, he allows himself to go limp, and groans when Sawyer eases a particularly persistent knot. “Right there, huh?” Sawyer murmurs, digging his thumb under Jack’s shoulder blade. Jack’s too tired to respond, and stretches an arm across Sawyer’s chest, gently touching the healing bullet wound. If Sawyer notices, he doesn’t react.
“Sawyer. What you said, about us almost being friends. . .” Jack doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“I remember. You’re not gonna get all midday movie on me are you Doc?” Sawyer’s tone is vaguely insolent, but Jack can tell he’s smiling.
“No. I just. . . I hope you didn’t mean it. Because I think we are friends.” Jack moves his hand to Sawyer’s collarbone, and stretches slightly to kiss the hollow of his neck. He can’t reach his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Sawyer.”
Jack wonders if he’s gone too far, and closes his eyes again. He doesn’t open them when he feels a stubbled chin graze his forehead.
Day 64
Jin isn’t going with Michael and the others tomorrow. He’ll be on the sailboat with Sayid instead. If he wasn’t, he’d like to think Michael would ask for his help. It doesn’t matter that they speak different languages - he’s not the outsider anymore. There are new strangers now. Two are gone, placed deep into the sand. He didn’t know them well, and isn’t sure if it’s okay for him to miss them. The third, Eko, is a good man; Jin has grown to like him since they met.
There are other strangers too. He feels sympathy for Danielle, because he knows what it is to be misunderstood when all you want is to protect what you love. But for Desmond he feels disdain - Jin doesn’t want to give up on the world he knows is out there, and he’d certainly never use the bottle to protect himself from fear.
He can’t deny his gratitude though - the sailboat Desmond gave them will help him protect the group from more strangers, ones he doesn’t care to know at all. Because the only stranger that matters to him now will have characters from his father’s name, and Sun’s mother’s name, and will never be an outsider. His child will believe in a good world.
Day 65
“What about my friends?” Hugo looks torn between dejection and fear. It’s obvious the big man is intensely loyal, and uncomfortable about leaving Kate, Jack and James in such . . . uncertain circumstances. Benjamin Linus clasps his hands behind his back and balances his weight on the balls of his feet. There’s so much he could say, but even a small amount of information could be dangerous in the hands of these people. They are misguided, uneducated, and have demonstrated their tendency to be foolhardy and headstrong. Nevertheless, he admires their resourcefulness and resilience. They may prove a challenge yet.
He looks at the trio kneeling on the jetty before him. Jack's eyes never stop moving. Kate’s expression is stoic anger. James’ face is twisted in a snarl of contempt. Benjamin sighs. The next few weeks are going to be very unpleasant. He turns to Hugo and notes his wide, anxious eyes. Best to keep it simple.
“Your friends are coming home with us.”