(no subject)
Title: When You're Dead
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Sawyer/Claire
Word Count: 1,591
Rating: R
Author's Notes: For
super_kc
Summary: AU. Creature comforts, he'll say, but he can only utter "quit your damn crying" for so long before he's pulling her to his chest and that, she wants to say, is what that phrase really means.
There was never a question posed as to where she would go once her feet hit the ground and they became two nameless faces in a crowd full of aspire-to-be’s and never-will-be’s.
The apartment has two bedrooms and bare white walls and she won’t open the second bedroom door at the end of the hall for fear of what was left behind (a mobile spins on for a baby long ago).
She gets lost in Ikea, trying to buy furniture with money that can’t have come from anything good, and he puts together the television stand long after the horizon has swallowed the sun and before her tears have dried (she lost track of how many faces passed and echoed familiarity).
Creature comforts, he’ll say, but he can only utter “quit your damn crying” for so long before he’s pulling her to his chest and that, she wants to say, is what that phrase really means.
---
She circles wanted ads until her highlighter bleeds smudgy black but they never pan out.
She’s just a pretty blonde who spent a year working at a fish fry before disappearing two years ago (they don’t know that part, but it’s tough to explain whereabouts). And she won’t be working on Wall Street or designating buildings, but the diner down the street seems to see something in her and she’s long ago learned to let go of dreams or preconceptions.
Besides, she’s learned how to mold herself into any role, even if that role works six hour shifts Mondays through Thursdays, and sometimes Saturdays, and usually ends up with someone’s hand on her ass before midday.
---
Claire thinks this might be what it’s like to be dead, and she says as much, one night when she can’t sleep and all the ceiling fan is doing is redistributing stale air.
He isn’t asleep either. He never is. “It ain’t a palace but it certainly’s bigger than a coffin.”
And he’s only joking, making light of what she really means, but she feels the need to go on anyways, if just to fill the void left behind by too many words that are merely mouthed and then swallowed. “No, I mean...isolated. Everyone thinks we’re dead. It’s just us.”
She doesn’t long for the outside world, not really. She doesn’t miss her family or her home or any of it. She would be perfectly fine curled up on this bed in this small apartment with him for the rest of her life, because it’s more than what she had back home or on the island. It’s free of heartbreak and hardship, and it isn’t everything she ever wanted but it’s a way to settle and it’s a life. She could live this life.
Even if she couldn’t, it’s all she has. It’s all he can give her. It’s all she can give herself.
“Death is easier.” Sawyer rolls onto his side, away from her, and she can feel that void again.
---
There’s a hospital (bad things happen here, will happen here), a car crash, and “i’m just a little banged up” turns into “long time no see” and her feet don’t quite touch the ground from where she’s sitting and there’s a couple of reasons for why she feels all of five years old.
Jack doesn’t ask and she doesn’t answer and he goes through the motions while she fixates on the gray that’s found its way into his temples and it’s only been two years since she’s seen him but she wouldn’t know that from his face.
He smoothes a bandage over her forehead and mumbles something about being more careful and then, “He’s fine you know.”
She nods but doesn’t ask anything else. She knows. Her son will be fine, this she knows, and she will find him again, but it isn’t going to be now. She can’t take care of him now. Can’t keep him safe.
There’s more, in his eyes, on his lips, on his mind, but something, some better judgment, keeps him from saying it, instead there’s, “Make sure you leave from the back parking lot if you don’t want to be seen.” Because where the Oceanic Six go, the media is never far away, is the unsaid.
Claire gets her purse, and runs a hand through her hair, a few stray strands caught underneath the bandage and they hurt when she pulls but she keeps quiet about that too (he doesn’t ask how she’s back or if there’s anyone else).
He forgoes the paperwork (this is their little secret; he’s gotten good at lying) but writes down something that looks like a prescription but ends up as an address and folds it into her hand and she nods and leaves and crumbles it up in her purse which, really, is just short of the trash can.
Two days later he shows up at their door and Claire gets to find out just how much Sawyer doesn’t like unexpected houseguests.
---
Sawyer starts talking Mexico as soon as Jack is out the door and Claire slams him with a palm against his chest and “I’ve had it with this” that couldn’t have had more meanings behind it if she tried.
Because she’s fine here, she’s fine isolated, most of the time, but all the lies are wearing thin on her, and he’s one of them for Christ’s sake, now they have to hide from him too?
Some French avant-garde picture plays on that television he was so damn concerned about and the shadows play on their faces as they yell over words that get lost in translation.
“We just got here,” she tells him, like that makes a difference, like just that simple fact will cause him to rethink it all. “We just got here and now you want to leave. Over Jack of all people. If there’s anyone who’s good at keeping secrets it’s him.”
“It’s a risk,” says the man who years ago was about nothing but risks, who lived them daily, and there’s something more, bubbling just below the surface, but thinking about it, trying to find it, takes up time better spent proving a point.
“So is living.” She tells him, dropping her hand, and backing off. “So is everything else. And I’m not going to Mexico. I’m not going anywhere.”
She stays in their bedroom with leftover Chinese food and a copy of the latest Allure that tries to tell her how to perfect a tan (spend a few years on the island, that should do it), and when he finally opens the door at eleven she knows he isn’t going anywhere either.
---
It’s a dress shirt Sawyer wears, the next time they see Jack, clean and white and she thinks she understands the significance of it. I’m doing just fine, it says, like it isn’t obvious that this is all an act. That all they are is actors, left behind by their troupe.
There’s lunch and conversation that feels stiff and unfamiliar and a few too many awkward glances, and she’s almost glad she has to go to work. She can’t get out of there fast enough.
Six hours later she walks through the front door and walks right back out when she sees that dress shirt on the floor upstairs and Jack’s car still in the parking lot.
---
“So this is why you didn’t want to see him.”
The bowl clatters against the sink, and he doesn’t even acknowledge her.
---
She still sleeps with him, or at least in the same bed as him, and when his hand snakes around, lingers between her legs, she can’t help the way her thighs tighten around his hand, pressing into him.
“This isn’t what you think.” He says, and right now she doesn’t care what she thinks (but it is, it always is) because she isn’t thinking about anything other than his hand and him and her own needs.
---
“She’s my sister.”
She hears it. She hears it, because she eavesdrops, she can’t trust them now, and he’s got his hand on Sawyer’s arm, and Sawyer looks - well, she can’t tell if that’s amusement or something else.
Claire drinks that night. Empties the rest of the whiskey (she doesn’t like whiskey) until the world feels unsteady and then she wraps her hand around the knob of the door to the bedroom, interrupting the melody of groans, because when you’re this drunk, it seems like the perfect thing to do.
When Jack pulls back, it’s a mumbled “whatever” he hears, as her lips find his, and her hand wraps around something else, and Sawyer can’t take his eyes off of them (that’s what this is about right?).
---
In the morning, she regrets her hangover more than her actions and if there’s something wrong with that she doesn’t acknowledge it.
---
“Why Los Angeles?” Jack asks, valid question. There is nothing that tethers them there, or at least not until him.
It’s a black hole, something for them to fall into. The flashbulbs are too busy to be on them, and they can continue on with their lives, and no one will ever know. Except for Jack, now, and she finds they both mind that less and less.
Their hands trail her body at night, slipping under her t-shirt and beneath her bra, and eventually inside of her, and laid out on the bed, between them she finally feels part of something and she isn’t scared anymore and she certainly isn’t lost.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Sawyer/Claire
Word Count: 1,591
Rating: R
Author's Notes: For
super_kc
Summary: AU. Creature comforts, he'll say, but he can only utter "quit your damn crying" for so long before he's pulling her to his chest and that, she wants to say, is what that phrase really means.
There was never a question posed as to where she would go once her feet hit the ground and they became two nameless faces in a crowd full of aspire-to-be’s and never-will-be’s.
The apartment has two bedrooms and bare white walls and she won’t open the second bedroom door at the end of the hall for fear of what was left behind (a mobile spins on for a baby long ago).
She gets lost in Ikea, trying to buy furniture with money that can’t have come from anything good, and he puts together the television stand long after the horizon has swallowed the sun and before her tears have dried (she lost track of how many faces passed and echoed familiarity).
Creature comforts, he’ll say, but he can only utter “quit your damn crying” for so long before he’s pulling her to his chest and that, she wants to say, is what that phrase really means.
---
She circles wanted ads until her highlighter bleeds smudgy black but they never pan out.
She’s just a pretty blonde who spent a year working at a fish fry before disappearing two years ago (they don’t know that part, but it’s tough to explain whereabouts). And she won’t be working on Wall Street or designating buildings, but the diner down the street seems to see something in her and she’s long ago learned to let go of dreams or preconceptions.
Besides, she’s learned how to mold herself into any role, even if that role works six hour shifts Mondays through Thursdays, and sometimes Saturdays, and usually ends up with someone’s hand on her ass before midday.
---
Claire thinks this might be what it’s like to be dead, and she says as much, one night when she can’t sleep and all the ceiling fan is doing is redistributing stale air.
He isn’t asleep either. He never is. “It ain’t a palace but it certainly’s bigger than a coffin.”
And he’s only joking, making light of what she really means, but she feels the need to go on anyways, if just to fill the void left behind by too many words that are merely mouthed and then swallowed. “No, I mean...isolated. Everyone thinks we’re dead. It’s just us.”
She doesn’t long for the outside world, not really. She doesn’t miss her family or her home or any of it. She would be perfectly fine curled up on this bed in this small apartment with him for the rest of her life, because it’s more than what she had back home or on the island. It’s free of heartbreak and hardship, and it isn’t everything she ever wanted but it’s a way to settle and it’s a life. She could live this life.
Even if she couldn’t, it’s all she has. It’s all he can give her. It’s all she can give herself.
“Death is easier.” Sawyer rolls onto his side, away from her, and she can feel that void again.
---
There’s a hospital (bad things happen here, will happen here), a car crash, and “i’m just a little banged up” turns into “long time no see” and her feet don’t quite touch the ground from where she’s sitting and there’s a couple of reasons for why she feels all of five years old.
Jack doesn’t ask and she doesn’t answer and he goes through the motions while she fixates on the gray that’s found its way into his temples and it’s only been two years since she’s seen him but she wouldn’t know that from his face.
He smoothes a bandage over her forehead and mumbles something about being more careful and then, “He’s fine you know.”
She nods but doesn’t ask anything else. She knows. Her son will be fine, this she knows, and she will find him again, but it isn’t going to be now. She can’t take care of him now. Can’t keep him safe.
There’s more, in his eyes, on his lips, on his mind, but something, some better judgment, keeps him from saying it, instead there’s, “Make sure you leave from the back parking lot if you don’t want to be seen.” Because where the Oceanic Six go, the media is never far away, is the unsaid.
Claire gets her purse, and runs a hand through her hair, a few stray strands caught underneath the bandage and they hurt when she pulls but she keeps quiet about that too (he doesn’t ask how she’s back or if there’s anyone else).
He forgoes the paperwork (this is their little secret; he’s gotten good at lying) but writes down something that looks like a prescription but ends up as an address and folds it into her hand and she nods and leaves and crumbles it up in her purse which, really, is just short of the trash can.
Two days later he shows up at their door and Claire gets to find out just how much Sawyer doesn’t like unexpected houseguests.
---
Sawyer starts talking Mexico as soon as Jack is out the door and Claire slams him with a palm against his chest and “I’ve had it with this” that couldn’t have had more meanings behind it if she tried.
Because she’s fine here, she’s fine isolated, most of the time, but all the lies are wearing thin on her, and he’s one of them for Christ’s sake, now they have to hide from him too?
Some French avant-garde picture plays on that television he was so damn concerned about and the shadows play on their faces as they yell over words that get lost in translation.
“We just got here,” she tells him, like that makes a difference, like just that simple fact will cause him to rethink it all. “We just got here and now you want to leave. Over Jack of all people. If there’s anyone who’s good at keeping secrets it’s him.”
“It’s a risk,” says the man who years ago was about nothing but risks, who lived them daily, and there’s something more, bubbling just below the surface, but thinking about it, trying to find it, takes up time better spent proving a point.
“So is living.” She tells him, dropping her hand, and backing off. “So is everything else. And I’m not going to Mexico. I’m not going anywhere.”
She stays in their bedroom with leftover Chinese food and a copy of the latest Allure that tries to tell her how to perfect a tan (spend a few years on the island, that should do it), and when he finally opens the door at eleven she knows he isn’t going anywhere either.
---
It’s a dress shirt Sawyer wears, the next time they see Jack, clean and white and she thinks she understands the significance of it. I’m doing just fine, it says, like it isn’t obvious that this is all an act. That all they are is actors, left behind by their troupe.
There’s lunch and conversation that feels stiff and unfamiliar and a few too many awkward glances, and she’s almost glad she has to go to work. She can’t get out of there fast enough.
Six hours later she walks through the front door and walks right back out when she sees that dress shirt on the floor upstairs and Jack’s car still in the parking lot.
---
“So this is why you didn’t want to see him.”
The bowl clatters against the sink, and he doesn’t even acknowledge her.
---
She still sleeps with him, or at least in the same bed as him, and when his hand snakes around, lingers between her legs, she can’t help the way her thighs tighten around his hand, pressing into him.
“This isn’t what you think.” He says, and right now she doesn’t care what she thinks (but it is, it always is) because she isn’t thinking about anything other than his hand and him and her own needs.
---
“She’s my sister.”
She hears it. She hears it, because she eavesdrops, she can’t trust them now, and he’s got his hand on Sawyer’s arm, and Sawyer looks - well, she can’t tell if that’s amusement or something else.
Claire drinks that night. Empties the rest of the whiskey (she doesn’t like whiskey) until the world feels unsteady and then she wraps her hand around the knob of the door to the bedroom, interrupting the melody of groans, because when you’re this drunk, it seems like the perfect thing to do.
When Jack pulls back, it’s a mumbled “whatever” he hears, as her lips find his, and her hand wraps around something else, and Sawyer can’t take his eyes off of them (that’s what this is about right?).
---
In the morning, she regrets her hangover more than her actions and if there’s something wrong with that she doesn’t acknowledge it.
---
“Why Los Angeles?” Jack asks, valid question. There is nothing that tethers them there, or at least not until him.
It’s a black hole, something for them to fall into. The flashbulbs are too busy to be on them, and they can continue on with their lives, and no one will ever know. Except for Jack, now, and she finds they both mind that less and less.
Their hands trail her body at night, slipping under her t-shirt and beneath her bra, and eventually inside of her, and laid out on the bed, between them she finally feels part of something and she isn’t scared anymore and she certainly isn’t lost.