(no subject)
Title: The Routine
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack, mentions of others.
Word Count: 1,213
Rating: R
Timeline: Flashforward, prior to TTLG.
Summary: The alarm clock goes off. The woman next to him rolls over, hits a button, closes her eyes again. Good morning and here we go again. This is the routine.
I told you, Jack, I told you that you don’t have what it takes.
So Doc, still think this was the right thing to do?
I thought you were supposed to be the big hero.
You just left us.
The alarm clock goes off. The woman next to him rolls over, hits a button, closes her eyes again.
Good morning and here we go again.
This is the routine.
---
It all comes down to small orange bottles, scattered around the house. A drawer, his jacket pocket, the cabinet she never goes into.
Sleeping pills, anti-anxiety drugs, painkillers. The usual suspects.
“Jack, you’re going to be late.” She calls, downstairs already.
Work. He’s got to work. Got to function on three hours of sleep and his own personal drug cocktail.
“I’ll be right there.”
Six pills in hand, he swallows them all without hesitation.
Like he said, routine.
---
He can operate in his sleep. One of the benefits of having done these procedures before; they’re ingrained in his brain, he doesn’t have to think too long on them.
It’s the things he’s not used to that give him pause.
“Can you call my father down here,” he’s tired, demanding, fresh out of surgery, with need for a consult.
The nurse, Carol, looks nothing short of flabbergasted. “Dr. Shephard you know I can’t do that.”
He doesn’t want to hear that. “Just get the chief of surgery down here please.”
Formality gives way to genuine concern. “Jack, maybe you should lay down for awhile.”
“No, what I need is Christian Shephard down here, right now!”
His yelling catches the attention of doctors, nurses, and patients alike. Carol puts a hand out, on his arm, telling him. “Your father is dead.”
And then he remembers. Of course he’s dead. Died in Australia, died before the crash, before all of this. He knows this.
So why didn’t he a minute ago?
---
Dinners are strained.
A lot of things between them are strained.
She cooks; sits across from him at the table, with familiar dissatisfaction and worry written on her face.
She shifts, pushes her food around her plate, stale, tension-filled air. “Maybe you should take some time off.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself either.” This is also a familiar speech. “You don’t sleep, you’re barely here anymore. I’m not so sure you should be operating like this.”
He stabs at his food, punctuating his, “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am fine!” This time it’s yelled. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that Sarah!”
Her eyes raise, eyebrows furrowed, confused and concerned, maybe a bit hurt.
It takes him a moment to figure out what’s got her so distraught. “Kate.” He said Sarah. He thought she was Sarah. He was so sure.
Then again he was also sure his father was still alive.
---
Six in the morning, one at noon, two at night.
He differs from that schedule and he’s fucked up for the rest of the day. He’s shaky or he can’t think straight.
For some reason he never starts to think of himself as dependent on them.
---
He dreams in grainy black and white, like old movies except for splashes of red, of blue.
He dreams of gunshots, of stabbings, of crimson blood. Of swimming of drowning, of blue, blue waters.
Jack dreams of death.
Jack dreams of all his failures.
---
“Live together, die alone.”
It’s usually Sawyer he hears, throwing it back in his face.
He left. They left.
They left the others to die alone.
He’s no better than Michael.
---
The only thing that doesn’t suffer between him and Kate is the sex.
The pills make him more aggressive. Considering she was previously fucking Sawyer he figures that isn’t too much of a change for her.
The breathy “I love you” at the end is just him going through the motions. A learned behavior.
Whether or not he means it is what he has trouble remembering.
---
She’s got one hand on her hip, and a pill bottle marked ‘Oxycodone’ held in the other.
Caught.
“What else are you hiding Jack?”
---
She doesn’t leave him.
He doesn’t fess up to anything else and, though they both know he’s lying, she stays.
In the morning he writes himself another prescription to replace the pills that went down the drain.
---
He never tells her about the woman he woke up in bed next to, one night two months ago, without any memory of how he got there and who she was.
He slept with her, this he knows, but everything else is a void.
When Kate asks he merely tells her he had a late shift at the hospital and leaves it at that.
---
How could you just leave us here?
You really are a failure.
We need you.
Three a.m., the clock reads.
This is the beginning of the end.
---
“We shouldn’t have left them behind.”
Kate looks up from clearing the table, plates in hand. “Don’t start Jack, just don’t.”
---
“No more refills.”
Jack shows the pharmacist the slip of paper, indignant.
“No more. Not unless you get a doctor - someone other than you - to write you a prescription.” The man tries to hand him some pamphlets. Drug counseling.
Jack tosses them back on the counter.
“You need some help.”
---
Where there’s a will there’s a way.
He works in a hospital; did that man really think that he couldn’t get what he wanted?
---
“I got a phone call from the pharmacist.”
Jack walks out; he doesn’t want to hear this from her.
---
“What’s your name, stranger?” Pretty, dark hair, reminds him of Ana-Lucia. She’s got a drink in hand, and probably a few too many in her.
“Jack.”
The handshake and flirty smile leads right where it always does.
---
‘We shouldn’t have left them behind’ progresses to something much more decided, important.
“We have to go back.”
She has no time for this. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What we did was wrong -“
“No, what we did was the only thing we could do.” She shakes her head. “What’s done is done. Maybe you should be focusing on other things.”
The following day she cleans every last drop of alcohol, his crutch, out of the house.
---
Should’ve known you would just give up.
He picks up the phone.
“I need a round-trip ticket to Sydney, Australia.”
---
“Where were you?”
Dark bags have taken up residence under his eyes; jet lag. It’s just after two in the morning.
He doesn’t enter. He’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
---
“I’m leaving.”
He can’t say he’s surprised. He’s surprised that she’s held on this long. She’s born to run. This he knows.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
What’s left to say?
There’s nothing left that she can do.
---
You let him win.
You’re no better than he is.
Aren’t you going to do anything about this?
You’re just another lost cause.
This time there’s no one to hit the snooze button on the clock. There’s no one to throw out the pills. No one trying to keep him on the right track. No more routine.
But he’s not alone.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack, mentions of others.
Word Count: 1,213
Rating: R
Timeline: Flashforward, prior to TTLG.
Summary: The alarm clock goes off. The woman next to him rolls over, hits a button, closes her eyes again. Good morning and here we go again. This is the routine.
I told you, Jack, I told you that you don’t have what it takes.
So Doc, still think this was the right thing to do?
I thought you were supposed to be the big hero.
You just left us.
The alarm clock goes off. The woman next to him rolls over, hits a button, closes her eyes again.
Good morning and here we go again.
This is the routine.
---
It all comes down to small orange bottles, scattered around the house. A drawer, his jacket pocket, the cabinet she never goes into.
Sleeping pills, anti-anxiety drugs, painkillers. The usual suspects.
“Jack, you’re going to be late.” She calls, downstairs already.
Work. He’s got to work. Got to function on three hours of sleep and his own personal drug cocktail.
“I’ll be right there.”
Six pills in hand, he swallows them all without hesitation.
Like he said, routine.
---
He can operate in his sleep. One of the benefits of having done these procedures before; they’re ingrained in his brain, he doesn’t have to think too long on them.
It’s the things he’s not used to that give him pause.
“Can you call my father down here,” he’s tired, demanding, fresh out of surgery, with need for a consult.
The nurse, Carol, looks nothing short of flabbergasted. “Dr. Shephard you know I can’t do that.”
He doesn’t want to hear that. “Just get the chief of surgery down here please.”
Formality gives way to genuine concern. “Jack, maybe you should lay down for awhile.”
“No, what I need is Christian Shephard down here, right now!”
His yelling catches the attention of doctors, nurses, and patients alike. Carol puts a hand out, on his arm, telling him. “Your father is dead.”
And then he remembers. Of course he’s dead. Died in Australia, died before the crash, before all of this. He knows this.
So why didn’t he a minute ago?
---
Dinners are strained.
A lot of things between them are strained.
She cooks; sits across from him at the table, with familiar dissatisfaction and worry written on her face.
She shifts, pushes her food around her plate, stale, tension-filled air. “Maybe you should take some time off.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself either.” This is also a familiar speech. “You don’t sleep, you’re barely here anymore. I’m not so sure you should be operating like this.”
He stabs at his food, punctuating his, “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am fine!” This time it’s yelled. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that Sarah!”
Her eyes raise, eyebrows furrowed, confused and concerned, maybe a bit hurt.
It takes him a moment to figure out what’s got her so distraught. “Kate.” He said Sarah. He thought she was Sarah. He was so sure.
Then again he was also sure his father was still alive.
---
Six in the morning, one at noon, two at night.
He differs from that schedule and he’s fucked up for the rest of the day. He’s shaky or he can’t think straight.
For some reason he never starts to think of himself as dependent on them.
---
He dreams in grainy black and white, like old movies except for splashes of red, of blue.
He dreams of gunshots, of stabbings, of crimson blood. Of swimming of drowning, of blue, blue waters.
Jack dreams of death.
Jack dreams of all his failures.
---
“Live together, die alone.”
It’s usually Sawyer he hears, throwing it back in his face.
He left. They left.
They left the others to die alone.
He’s no better than Michael.
---
The only thing that doesn’t suffer between him and Kate is the sex.
The pills make him more aggressive. Considering she was previously fucking Sawyer he figures that isn’t too much of a change for her.
The breathy “I love you” at the end is just him going through the motions. A learned behavior.
Whether or not he means it is what he has trouble remembering.
---
She’s got one hand on her hip, and a pill bottle marked ‘Oxycodone’ held in the other.
Caught.
“What else are you hiding Jack?”
---
She doesn’t leave him.
He doesn’t fess up to anything else and, though they both know he’s lying, she stays.
In the morning he writes himself another prescription to replace the pills that went down the drain.
---
He never tells her about the woman he woke up in bed next to, one night two months ago, without any memory of how he got there and who she was.
He slept with her, this he knows, but everything else is a void.
When Kate asks he merely tells her he had a late shift at the hospital and leaves it at that.
---
How could you just leave us here?
You really are a failure.
We need you.
Three a.m., the clock reads.
This is the beginning of the end.
---
“We shouldn’t have left them behind.”
Kate looks up from clearing the table, plates in hand. “Don’t start Jack, just don’t.”
---
“No more refills.”
Jack shows the pharmacist the slip of paper, indignant.
“No more. Not unless you get a doctor - someone other than you - to write you a prescription.” The man tries to hand him some pamphlets. Drug counseling.
Jack tosses them back on the counter.
“You need some help.”
---
Where there’s a will there’s a way.
He works in a hospital; did that man really think that he couldn’t get what he wanted?
---
“I got a phone call from the pharmacist.”
Jack walks out; he doesn’t want to hear this from her.
---
“What’s your name, stranger?” Pretty, dark hair, reminds him of Ana-Lucia. She’s got a drink in hand, and probably a few too many in her.
“Jack.”
The handshake and flirty smile leads right where it always does.
---
‘We shouldn’t have left them behind’ progresses to something much more decided, important.
“We have to go back.”
She has no time for this. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What we did was wrong -“
“No, what we did was the only thing we could do.” She shakes her head. “What’s done is done. Maybe you should be focusing on other things.”
The following day she cleans every last drop of alcohol, his crutch, out of the house.
---
Should’ve known you would just give up.
He picks up the phone.
“I need a round-trip ticket to Sydney, Australia.”
---
“Where were you?”
Dark bags have taken up residence under his eyes; jet lag. It’s just after two in the morning.
He doesn’t enter. He’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
---
“I’m leaving.”
He can’t say he’s surprised. He’s surprised that she’s held on this long. She’s born to run. This he knows.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
What’s left to say?
There’s nothing left that she can do.
---
You let him win.
You’re no better than he is.
Aren’t you going to do anything about this?
You’re just another lost cause.
This time there’s no one to hit the snooze button on the clock. There’s no one to throw out the pills. No one trying to keep him on the right track. No more routine.
But he’s not alone.