LOST: The Way Things Were Not
Title: The Way Things Were Not
Fandom: LOST
Author: kawaiispinel
Feedback: ... Is loverly.
Word Count: 1841
Rating: PG
Characters: Desmond, Penny, Charles Widmore, Charlie, Claire, Jack, Juliet, Sawyer, Kate, Locke
Pairings: Desmond/Penny, Charlie/Claire, Jack/Juliet, Sawyer/Kate.
Summary: (AU) Five happy endings that never happened.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: Written for the lostfichallenge "Inspired By..." challenge. This particular piece was inspired by "Song of Forgetting," and the actual lyrics that inspired the piece are at the top of the fic. In an ideal situation, I would have given every Lostie a happy ending, but my brain quit working after five. And yeah, I find it hilarious that they're all shippy until you get to Locke's, but, uh, Locke/Wilderness is totally OTP anyway, so it works out.
"Sing a song of forgetting
A song of the way things were not.
Sing of what’s lost to you
Of times that you never knew."
I.
He never expected to be in this position- oh he’d certainly hoped it and dreamed about it, until all other ambitions were crowded out of his mind, but somehow his expectations for the grand finale of this scenario had been less than perfect. Failure came as easy to him as breathing or so he’d been led to believe, so it would just be the final nail in his proverbial coffin if the one thing he needed to counterbalance all of that failure amounted to nothing just like everything else in his miserable life.
And yet here he was, standing on the pier, the Elizabeth (his best friend for the past several months and the one "woman" he hadn’t run away from yet) at his back, being congratulated by what felt like every person in England for winning the race. His eyes drifted to the judges’ stand where he met the fierce gaze of Charles Widmore and matched it with a look smug satisfaction he wouldn’t have dared to throw back at him were the situation different. There was no approval to be found in the old man’s eyes, and he never thought there would be, but there seemed to be just the tiniest fragment of respect, and that’s all he had ever wanted from him. He had never sought to destroy the dragon by taking part in this race- only to prove himself worthy in his eyes. After all, he had never been the sort of man who actively sought to slay dragons anyway.
Just when he thought his moment of victory couldn’t get any more perfect, he heard a voice that had haunted his sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares for as long as he had been drifting at sea when loneliness, his boat, and a bottle of cheap scotch had served as his only companions. He searched the crowd, which seemed to be parting before his very eyes until the girl he had abandoned for this farce burst free like a wild animal finally allowed out of its cage and threw herself at him, abandoning all traces of the decorum that once signified her as someone of wealth and status. Love was not a matter of decorum, however. It was messy, very rarely pretty, and hardly the sort of thing that sensible fairy tales were made of (theirs had been no exception up until this particular moment), and somehow her behavior was appropriate in that sense.
It would have been a sight for the crowd if their current champion had lost his balance and fallen off the pier because of an overly zealous woman throwing herself at him, but such a calamity never occurred. Even if it had, Desmond didn’t think for a second that he would have cared. Nothing would have destroyed the perfection of this moment.
Even his victory was overshadowed by the warm familiarity of Penny back in his arms again.
II.
"Get clean," Liam had said. "Forget about the band- just try to make a new life for yourself here in Australia. It won’t kill you."
And it hadn’t really. Six months clean, six months with a legit job, six months of not really thinking about music aside from the few casual performances at little pubs (because he really couldn’t forget music entirely- that was like denying a part of himself), and he could see a definite improvement in his life, although things could stand to be improved a little more.
He pulled faces at a baby in a pram who had apparently taken a shine to him while he was out walking in the park, and the mother laughed at him in a way that suggested she hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a long time. "What’s his name?" He asked her, smiling in an exceedingly charming way.
"Aaron," she replied. She cocked her head to the side as if she recognized him from somewhere. "Don’t you play at that little club downtown? I think I might have seen you perform once."
"That would completely depend on whether or not you liked the performance," he beamed, sticking his hand into the pram and allowing the infant to wrap his tiny fist around his finger.
She smiled back, and he couldn’t help but notice what a beautiful smile she had. "If I remember correctly, you brought the house down."
"Well, in that case, that was definitely me. I have a habit of bringing houses down. Quite literally, actually. Back when my band and I were first starting out we played in this old, rickety building. Whole thing collapsed on us mid-performance." He noted her shocked expression and added hastily. "No one was hurt, but a very valiant drum set died in that incident. Horribly tragic."
She laughed at him again, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "So you used to be in a band?"
He thought about bringing up DriveShaft and then decided against it. No use bragging about the glory days of halcyon youth complete with every rock and roll cliche in the book when you were seeking to impress an innocent young mother. "Used to, but not anymore, and those sorts of stories are not meant for the ears of children." He indicated the baby who had fallen asleep, one fist still enclosed around one of his fingers. "And what about you? What does your husband say about you spending time in pubs oogling attractive guitar players."
"I never said I was oogling you," she rolled her eyes. "And anyway, I don’t have a husband. Or even a boyfriend, for that matter before you bring it up." She noted the look on his face. "Yes, I know. I’m the very model of a modern woman."
He smiled. "I like modern women, so much better than old-fashioned women." He gently tugged his hand free of Aaron’s infant fist and offered it to her. "I’m Charlie, by the way."
She took his hand and shook it, her eyes never leaving his. "I’m Claire."
III.
"I used to do fertility research," she said, rolling her eyes over her coffee cup. "I figured actually working at a hospital would be a change of pace."
He traced the ring of liquid his cup had left on the table with his fingers. "So what made you move from Miami to LA. And don’t say a change of scenery, because there isn’t a single bit of scenery in the world that looks better in LA."
"Obviously, you’ve never been to Miami," she rolled her eyes again. He found it to be slightly endearing, which was more than he could say about most of the women he had casually dated since the divorce was finalized. For the most part, he was merely going through the motions of moving on without actually moving on, but with this woman... Well, he could almost see something happening. A spark or two, perhaps, although he didn’t really believe in sparks.
"I used to watch The Golden Girls religiously," he shrugged and she snorted.
"No normal man would ever admit that, Dr. Shephard," she grinned.
"I would and I’d like to think of myself as being mostly normal." He paused and then added, "And you can call me Jack, Dr. Burke."
She grinned at him wryly. "It’s Juliet."
IV.
He didn’t make a habit of picking up hitchhikers, but he was a man, first and foremost, and the girl thumbing for a lift halfway out of Fresno was cute and there had been a sad lack of cute women in his life lately, so he pulled over and pushed open the passenger side door of his pick-up, gesturing her in.
"Where you headed?" He asked her casually, because that was apparently the sort of thing one asked when picking up hitchhikers or so dozens of movies watched in hotel rooms over the years had taught him.
"Would it be really cliche to say ‘anywhere but here,’" the girl muttered, climbing into the seat with no degree of difficulty despite the size of the pick-up. Either the girl had grown up around trucks or she was used to being picked up in them.
"We’re not exactly exhibitin’ a lack of cliche here, Freckles," he shrugged before starting the truck again and starting back off on the nearly deserted moonlit highway. He noted her wrinkling her nose at the unwanted pet name and asked, "So what do they call you?"
"Margaret," she wrinkled her nose again, although this time it was in a slightly more endearing way.
"Margaret," he repeated, biting back a small laugh.
"Everyone calls me Maggie," she added. "What about you?"
"Sawyer," he responded without the slightest bit of hesitation. It was practically habit referring to himself by that name now. "Which, incidentally, is about as much my real name as Margaret is yours," he noted after a moment’s silence.
This seemed to impress her, although it might not have been his words so much as the large half-open duffle bag of cash sitting in the backseat of the truck which he had somehow forgotten to discreetly hide. Well, when he pulled the con, he hadn’t exactly expected to be picking up hitchhikers. He would’ve been irritated with himself had "Margaret" not looked so amused about the whole damn thing.
"Did you rob a bank?"
"What would you say if I did?" He asked nonchalantly.
She leaned back into her seat, chuckling a little to herself and rolling her eyes as if she had just become some victim of a great cosmic joke. Later, she’d tell him the details of whatever great cosmic joke that was. For now, she just said, "I’d say... My name’s Kate."
V.
He’d been on the cusp of this moment most of his life- the occasional hunting trip in deep woods and the like, but to be fully absorbed in nature, well that took something like this to accomplish. Something so pure and wild and untamed that he could see right to the heart of and know that it was beautiful and that, despite everything, such beauty and serenity truly did exist in the world... You just had to venture a little farther off the beaten path than most normal men were willing to go to find it.
The rest of the group thought he was taking the trip a little too seriously and he thought they weren’t taking it seriously enough. While everyone else dragged their feet, he made his mark at the head of the party, their leader in a way, but also a solitary being at one with the whole of creation. A vessel for all kinds of deeper wonderment that only came for the enlightened few who truly understand the call and beckon of nature.
This was everything he had ever wanted and it eradicated his former aching desire for a father figure who had failed to meet his expectations. All of his anger held no sway here. Petty emotions and paltry memories were nothing compared to what was being viewed through his eyes as he wandered the wilderness as if in a trance.
Truly this was perfection and as close to happiness as he could ever hope to be in his life.
Fandom: LOST
Author: kawaiispinel
Feedback: ... Is loverly.
Word Count: 1841
Rating: PG
Characters: Desmond, Penny, Charles Widmore, Charlie, Claire, Jack, Juliet, Sawyer, Kate, Locke
Pairings: Desmond/Penny, Charlie/Claire, Jack/Juliet, Sawyer/Kate.
Summary: (AU) Five happy endings that never happened.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: Written for the lostfichallenge "Inspired By..." challenge. This particular piece was inspired by "Song of Forgetting," and the actual lyrics that inspired the piece are at the top of the fic. In an ideal situation, I would have given every Lostie a happy ending, but my brain quit working after five. And yeah, I find it hilarious that they're all shippy until you get to Locke's, but, uh, Locke/Wilderness is totally OTP anyway, so it works out.
"Sing a song of forgetting
A song of the way things were not.
Sing of what’s lost to you
Of times that you never knew."
I.
He never expected to be in this position- oh he’d certainly hoped it and dreamed about it, until all other ambitions were crowded out of his mind, but somehow his expectations for the grand finale of this scenario had been less than perfect. Failure came as easy to him as breathing or so he’d been led to believe, so it would just be the final nail in his proverbial coffin if the one thing he needed to counterbalance all of that failure amounted to nothing just like everything else in his miserable life.
And yet here he was, standing on the pier, the Elizabeth (his best friend for the past several months and the one "woman" he hadn’t run away from yet) at his back, being congratulated by what felt like every person in England for winning the race. His eyes drifted to the judges’ stand where he met the fierce gaze of Charles Widmore and matched it with a look smug satisfaction he wouldn’t have dared to throw back at him were the situation different. There was no approval to be found in the old man’s eyes, and he never thought there would be, but there seemed to be just the tiniest fragment of respect, and that’s all he had ever wanted from him. He had never sought to destroy the dragon by taking part in this race- only to prove himself worthy in his eyes. After all, he had never been the sort of man who actively sought to slay dragons anyway.
Just when he thought his moment of victory couldn’t get any more perfect, he heard a voice that had haunted his sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares for as long as he had been drifting at sea when loneliness, his boat, and a bottle of cheap scotch had served as his only companions. He searched the crowd, which seemed to be parting before his very eyes until the girl he had abandoned for this farce burst free like a wild animal finally allowed out of its cage and threw herself at him, abandoning all traces of the decorum that once signified her as someone of wealth and status. Love was not a matter of decorum, however. It was messy, very rarely pretty, and hardly the sort of thing that sensible fairy tales were made of (theirs had been no exception up until this particular moment), and somehow her behavior was appropriate in that sense.
It would have been a sight for the crowd if their current champion had lost his balance and fallen off the pier because of an overly zealous woman throwing herself at him, but such a calamity never occurred. Even if it had, Desmond didn’t think for a second that he would have cared. Nothing would have destroyed the perfection of this moment.
Even his victory was overshadowed by the warm familiarity of Penny back in his arms again.
II.
"Get clean," Liam had said. "Forget about the band- just try to make a new life for yourself here in Australia. It won’t kill you."
And it hadn’t really. Six months clean, six months with a legit job, six months of not really thinking about music aside from the few casual performances at little pubs (because he really couldn’t forget music entirely- that was like denying a part of himself), and he could see a definite improvement in his life, although things could stand to be improved a little more.
He pulled faces at a baby in a pram who had apparently taken a shine to him while he was out walking in the park, and the mother laughed at him in a way that suggested she hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a long time. "What’s his name?" He asked her, smiling in an exceedingly charming way.
"Aaron," she replied. She cocked her head to the side as if she recognized him from somewhere. "Don’t you play at that little club downtown? I think I might have seen you perform once."
"That would completely depend on whether or not you liked the performance," he beamed, sticking his hand into the pram and allowing the infant to wrap his tiny fist around his finger.
She smiled back, and he couldn’t help but notice what a beautiful smile she had. "If I remember correctly, you brought the house down."
"Well, in that case, that was definitely me. I have a habit of bringing houses down. Quite literally, actually. Back when my band and I were first starting out we played in this old, rickety building. Whole thing collapsed on us mid-performance." He noted her shocked expression and added hastily. "No one was hurt, but a very valiant drum set died in that incident. Horribly tragic."
She laughed at him again, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "So you used to be in a band?"
He thought about bringing up DriveShaft and then decided against it. No use bragging about the glory days of halcyon youth complete with every rock and roll cliche in the book when you were seeking to impress an innocent young mother. "Used to, but not anymore, and those sorts of stories are not meant for the ears of children." He indicated the baby who had fallen asleep, one fist still enclosed around one of his fingers. "And what about you? What does your husband say about you spending time in pubs oogling attractive guitar players."
"I never said I was oogling you," she rolled her eyes. "And anyway, I don’t have a husband. Or even a boyfriend, for that matter before you bring it up." She noted the look on his face. "Yes, I know. I’m the very model of a modern woman."
He smiled. "I like modern women, so much better than old-fashioned women." He gently tugged his hand free of Aaron’s infant fist and offered it to her. "I’m Charlie, by the way."
She took his hand and shook it, her eyes never leaving his. "I’m Claire."
III.
"I used to do fertility research," she said, rolling her eyes over her coffee cup. "I figured actually working at a hospital would be a change of pace."
He traced the ring of liquid his cup had left on the table with his fingers. "So what made you move from Miami to LA. And don’t say a change of scenery, because there isn’t a single bit of scenery in the world that looks better in LA."
"Obviously, you’ve never been to Miami," she rolled her eyes again. He found it to be slightly endearing, which was more than he could say about most of the women he had casually dated since the divorce was finalized. For the most part, he was merely going through the motions of moving on without actually moving on, but with this woman... Well, he could almost see something happening. A spark or two, perhaps, although he didn’t really believe in sparks.
"I used to watch The Golden Girls religiously," he shrugged and she snorted.
"No normal man would ever admit that, Dr. Shephard," she grinned.
"I would and I’d like to think of myself as being mostly normal." He paused and then added, "And you can call me Jack, Dr. Burke."
She grinned at him wryly. "It’s Juliet."
IV.
He didn’t make a habit of picking up hitchhikers, but he was a man, first and foremost, and the girl thumbing for a lift halfway out of Fresno was cute and there had been a sad lack of cute women in his life lately, so he pulled over and pushed open the passenger side door of his pick-up, gesturing her in.
"Where you headed?" He asked her casually, because that was apparently the sort of thing one asked when picking up hitchhikers or so dozens of movies watched in hotel rooms over the years had taught him.
"Would it be really cliche to say ‘anywhere but here,’" the girl muttered, climbing into the seat with no degree of difficulty despite the size of the pick-up. Either the girl had grown up around trucks or she was used to being picked up in them.
"We’re not exactly exhibitin’ a lack of cliche here, Freckles," he shrugged before starting the truck again and starting back off on the nearly deserted moonlit highway. He noted her wrinkling her nose at the unwanted pet name and asked, "So what do they call you?"
"Margaret," she wrinkled her nose again, although this time it was in a slightly more endearing way.
"Margaret," he repeated, biting back a small laugh.
"Everyone calls me Maggie," she added. "What about you?"
"Sawyer," he responded without the slightest bit of hesitation. It was practically habit referring to himself by that name now. "Which, incidentally, is about as much my real name as Margaret is yours," he noted after a moment’s silence.
This seemed to impress her, although it might not have been his words so much as the large half-open duffle bag of cash sitting in the backseat of the truck which he had somehow forgotten to discreetly hide. Well, when he pulled the con, he hadn’t exactly expected to be picking up hitchhikers. He would’ve been irritated with himself had "Margaret" not looked so amused about the whole damn thing.
"Did you rob a bank?"
"What would you say if I did?" He asked nonchalantly.
She leaned back into her seat, chuckling a little to herself and rolling her eyes as if she had just become some victim of a great cosmic joke. Later, she’d tell him the details of whatever great cosmic joke that was. For now, she just said, "I’d say... My name’s Kate."
V.
He’d been on the cusp of this moment most of his life- the occasional hunting trip in deep woods and the like, but to be fully absorbed in nature, well that took something like this to accomplish. Something so pure and wild and untamed that he could see right to the heart of and know that it was beautiful and that, despite everything, such beauty and serenity truly did exist in the world... You just had to venture a little farther off the beaten path than most normal men were willing to go to find it.
The rest of the group thought he was taking the trip a little too seriously and he thought they weren’t taking it seriously enough. While everyone else dragged their feet, he made his mark at the head of the party, their leader in a way, but also a solitary being at one with the whole of creation. A vessel for all kinds of deeper wonderment that only came for the enlightened few who truly understand the call and beckon of nature.
This was everything he had ever wanted and it eradicated his former aching desire for a father figure who had failed to meet his expectations. All of his anger held no sway here. Petty emotions and paltry memories were nothing compared to what was being viewed through his eyes as he wandered the wilderness as if in a trance.
Truly this was perfection and as close to happiness as he could ever hope to be in his life.