all the stars can disappear without a trace {jack, jack/sun}
Title: All The Stars Can Disappear Without A Trace
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack. Mild Jack/Sun.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,183
Prompt: #28 - Winter for 100_tales
Author's Note: Even I'll admit this is a little weird, but I'm blaming it on the snow.
Summary: Spoilers for Season 5. At the time it seemed like the thing to do -- go back, leave again, this time together. No man left behind, and what could be wrong with that. Turns out everything.
It was the second time that did them in.
At the time, it had seemed like the thing to do - get everyone together, leave at their first opportunity, together. Leave no man behind. Because what could be wrong with that; with no one left behind there would be nothing tying them there, nothing left to make them go back. They’d be free, truly, finally.
Freedom on solid ground, home, lasted all of two hours before someone caught wind of who they were and, apparently, after you disappear off of the face of the earth for the second time in about three years, well, the government starts asking questions.
The nightmare lasted a week for him, longer for others. This was six months later, and he still didn’t know where Kate was, where Sayid was. Kate had been there, by his side, and then some heavily armed men had grabbed her by either arm and whisked her off, ignoring his pleas, and Sawyer’s too. Her face, in the back of the car, was one of quiet resignation, and he’d never quite forgotten how easily she gave up. It didn’t make sense, somehow, and he could find that same confusion in Sawyer’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” Sawyer had exhaled, eyes on that long stretch of road, a car he could no longer see, hadn’t been able to for a few minutes. “She hadn’t been Kate for a good long while.”
It took Jack a while to understand what he meant, why he even said it. Then he remembered her on his bed, the night before they came back, vacant eyes, hollow voice, and even before then, with Aaron. She hadn’t been Kate, not the woman they had known all those years ago when they first crashed - maybe that woman wasn’t even her to begin with. But by the time he’d gotten it all figured out Sawyer was long gone too.
They all were.
He never was let go exactly. He was kept in some little commune, way up north, but he could never tell exactly where. It was always cold, at least for someone who’d lived in California for the better part of his life. There were others, mostly people from the second crash, people who were brought into this by accident, by them, and every time he saw one of them his stomach twisted a little more. Got to blame himself for something, right?
There was one familiar face, in all of this. He’d seen her walking around the perimeter, wood that looked grayed from too many years of wear and tear and bad weather, and then watched her slip back into some small house he had been sure was vacant.
He waited until midnight to knock on the door.
By the looks of it when she answered on the fourth knock she hadn’t been sleeping. Sun’s eyes were tired, her lips chapped, and with the wind blowing at his back she’d ushered him in and locked the door behind him.
They’d been keeping her somewhere else, she told him, and Hurley was there, and Rose and Bernard, a few others, both from the original crash, and from 316. She didn’t know where they were holding the others, or even why, and she hadn’t seen her husband in months. When he asked about Kate, then about Juliet, all he’d received were saddened shakes of the head.
Lost cause, and there’s no use in dwelling. They’ll either show up or they don’t, and his hands are tied this time, like always. Jack never really had much of a say in this, no matter what his delusions of false leadership insisted.
She told him, once, later, that they’d let Ben go. Her voice had taken a turn for the bitter, the disgusted, and he’d felt rage bubbling under the surface, just a little. There were two conclusions to draw from that single fact: either he’d gotten lucky and talked his way out of things, or he’d been looking for a way to get rid of them and masterminded this whole thing for some greater purpose of his or whatever. Jack could pretend to believe whatever he wanted, but they both knew which one was more likely considering his track record.
There were guards, around the gates, unmoving, unblinking people - if only that in name instead of mannerisms and behavior - and he’d seen others try talking to them, try bringing them to their side, sweet talk them into letting them go. It never worked.
Snow starts falling in early December, keeps up through January, at least a few inches every week, and by February the place is a barren wasteland. Even so much as looking out the window can blind you, sun shining down on glaringly white snow, the only thing that’s clean here.
Sun lives here now, in the bedroom down the hall, and she hands him steaming cups of coffee on days like this, the taste only kept from being too bitter, too sludgy, by too long a time spent on the island. You can get used to anything, especially if you haven’t had it in long enough.
He comes to hate winter. She never liked it in the first place, mostly keeps her eyes closed to it, time spent inside with books and sleep and him (she wraps her legs around him, balancing somehow between his weight and the wall, one hand on the dresser and the other looped around the back of his neck, and he thinks this is a perfect example of all the various forms that grief can take, and who is he to intervene - it’s not like she’s the only one who’s been bent and broken).
Sometimes he wonders if she still harbors that same grudge against him, holds him accountable for all of this. He’ll catch looks from across the room when she thinks he isn’t looking that tell tales of ever-present blame, and he isn’t ever sure if they’re meant to be directed at him or if he’s just the last person they can be directed at. It’s okay; it’s almost easier if someone’s blaming him for something. He’s used to that, and it saves him the trouble of dwelling on all of his other mistakes.
Once, he asks her, “How come you never tell me we shouldn’t have left the island?” Everyone else had and he found it funny how no matter what he did it was always wrong. First it was leaving, then it was going back, then it was leaving the second time. It’s a circular argument and he’s given up on the prospect of winning it.
“Because what would be the point of it,” she replies, closing the book she’s been engrossed in for the past twenty minutes, her index finger resting between the pages, holding her place. “We all wanted to do the same thing, wanted to have it all, you were just the only one who said it.”
He nods, and she goes back to reading her book, as the wind blows and beats against the window panes, with no end in sight.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack. Mild Jack/Sun.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,183
Prompt: #28 - Winter for 100_tales
Author's Note: Even I'll admit this is a little weird, but I'm blaming it on the snow.
Summary: Spoilers for Season 5. At the time it seemed like the thing to do -- go back, leave again, this time together. No man left behind, and what could be wrong with that. Turns out everything.
It was the second time that did them in.
At the time, it had seemed like the thing to do - get everyone together, leave at their first opportunity, together. Leave no man behind. Because what could be wrong with that; with no one left behind there would be nothing tying them there, nothing left to make them go back. They’d be free, truly, finally.
Freedom on solid ground, home, lasted all of two hours before someone caught wind of who they were and, apparently, after you disappear off of the face of the earth for the second time in about three years, well, the government starts asking questions.
The nightmare lasted a week for him, longer for others. This was six months later, and he still didn’t know where Kate was, where Sayid was. Kate had been there, by his side, and then some heavily armed men had grabbed her by either arm and whisked her off, ignoring his pleas, and Sawyer’s too. Her face, in the back of the car, was one of quiet resignation, and he’d never quite forgotten how easily she gave up. It didn’t make sense, somehow, and he could find that same confusion in Sawyer’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” Sawyer had exhaled, eyes on that long stretch of road, a car he could no longer see, hadn’t been able to for a few minutes. “She hadn’t been Kate for a good long while.”
It took Jack a while to understand what he meant, why he even said it. Then he remembered her on his bed, the night before they came back, vacant eyes, hollow voice, and even before then, with Aaron. She hadn’t been Kate, not the woman they had known all those years ago when they first crashed - maybe that woman wasn’t even her to begin with. But by the time he’d gotten it all figured out Sawyer was long gone too.
They all were.
He never was let go exactly. He was kept in some little commune, way up north, but he could never tell exactly where. It was always cold, at least for someone who’d lived in California for the better part of his life. There were others, mostly people from the second crash, people who were brought into this by accident, by them, and every time he saw one of them his stomach twisted a little more. Got to blame himself for something, right?
There was one familiar face, in all of this. He’d seen her walking around the perimeter, wood that looked grayed from too many years of wear and tear and bad weather, and then watched her slip back into some small house he had been sure was vacant.
He waited until midnight to knock on the door.
By the looks of it when she answered on the fourth knock she hadn’t been sleeping. Sun’s eyes were tired, her lips chapped, and with the wind blowing at his back she’d ushered him in and locked the door behind him.
They’d been keeping her somewhere else, she told him, and Hurley was there, and Rose and Bernard, a few others, both from the original crash, and from 316. She didn’t know where they were holding the others, or even why, and she hadn’t seen her husband in months. When he asked about Kate, then about Juliet, all he’d received were saddened shakes of the head.
Lost cause, and there’s no use in dwelling. They’ll either show up or they don’t, and his hands are tied this time, like always. Jack never really had much of a say in this, no matter what his delusions of false leadership insisted.
She told him, once, later, that they’d let Ben go. Her voice had taken a turn for the bitter, the disgusted, and he’d felt rage bubbling under the surface, just a little. There were two conclusions to draw from that single fact: either he’d gotten lucky and talked his way out of things, or he’d been looking for a way to get rid of them and masterminded this whole thing for some greater purpose of his or whatever. Jack could pretend to believe whatever he wanted, but they both knew which one was more likely considering his track record.
There were guards, around the gates, unmoving, unblinking people - if only that in name instead of mannerisms and behavior - and he’d seen others try talking to them, try bringing them to their side, sweet talk them into letting them go. It never worked.
Snow starts falling in early December, keeps up through January, at least a few inches every week, and by February the place is a barren wasteland. Even so much as looking out the window can blind you, sun shining down on glaringly white snow, the only thing that’s clean here.
Sun lives here now, in the bedroom down the hall, and she hands him steaming cups of coffee on days like this, the taste only kept from being too bitter, too sludgy, by too long a time spent on the island. You can get used to anything, especially if you haven’t had it in long enough.
He comes to hate winter. She never liked it in the first place, mostly keeps her eyes closed to it, time spent inside with books and sleep and him (she wraps her legs around him, balancing somehow between his weight and the wall, one hand on the dresser and the other looped around the back of his neck, and he thinks this is a perfect example of all the various forms that grief can take, and who is he to intervene - it’s not like she’s the only one who’s been bent and broken).
Sometimes he wonders if she still harbors that same grudge against him, holds him accountable for all of this. He’ll catch looks from across the room when she thinks he isn’t looking that tell tales of ever-present blame, and he isn’t ever sure if they’re meant to be directed at him or if he’s just the last person they can be directed at. It’s okay; it’s almost easier if someone’s blaming him for something. He’s used to that, and it saves him the trouble of dwelling on all of his other mistakes.
Once, he asks her, “How come you never tell me we shouldn’t have left the island?” Everyone else had and he found it funny how no matter what he did it was always wrong. First it was leaving, then it was going back, then it was leaving the second time. It’s a circular argument and he’s given up on the prospect of winning it.
“Because what would be the point of it,” she replies, closing the book she’s been engrossed in for the past twenty minutes, her index finger resting between the pages, holding her place. “We all wanted to do the same thing, wanted to have it all, you were just the only one who said it.”
He nods, and she goes back to reading her book, as the wind blows and beats against the window panes, with no end in sight.