Following, Part Eighteen [Jack/Juliet] [R] [WIP]
Title: Following (Part Eighteen)
Characters: Juliet, Jack, Charlotte, Daniel, Hurley, Bernard, Rose, Ben, Claire...
Pairing: Juliet/Jack, hints of Charlotte/Daniel
Rating: R (PG-13 for this part)
Spoilers: Season 4, Season 5 (sort of)
A/N: This part is pretty short, but I'm posting now because this section is taking a really long time for me to write (quite obviously from the ending, there is another major Claire part coming). I'm trying to experiment heavily with the AU plot in this section and I'm not sure yet whether it's working. Moreover, writing nutso!Claire is tough! I tried looking at clips of S6 for inspiration only to remind myself how much the writing sucked in S6. So consider this my answer to the squirrel baby. :)
Please let me know what you think!
~~
“Claire? What are you doing here? Is this-Is this where you’ve been all this time? Are they keeping you prisoner?” He moved forward awkwardly, his impulse to reach for her thwarted when he remembered that his hands were still tied behind his back. “You haven’t seen Juliet, have you? Or Charlotte and Dan-I mean, uh, a red-haired woman, or a man with a beard?”
“Sorry,” she shrugged, “I don’t exactly get out much these days.” She looked up at him, fixing him with her eyes, her lip curling slightly as if she was waiting for him to get the joke. Then, abruptly, her whole manner changed. Her expression went serious as she rolled the sleeves of her faded shirt up over her elbows.
“Listen, Jack, I know you have lots of questions for me, and I’ll be happy to answer all of them for you when we’re finished, but there’s something that we have to do first.”
“What is it?” he asked, leaning toward her. She folded her hands together quickly.
“I have to give you a test.”
“What?” He took a quick, alarmed step backward, remembering what Juliet had told him before they’d been separated.
“Hey,” she reached out toward him, “Don’t worry: I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not one of those tests. This one won’t hurt at all. All you have to do is sit down in that chair across the table and answer some questions.”
“Claire-” he interrupted, ignoring her, “If it’s Ben that’s making you do this-we can try to get out of here together. When Cindy and Brian come back, we could-we could take them by surprise: they won’t be expecting both of us to-”
“Jack-please,” She leaned forward suddenly, her eyes focusing for the first time, moving to look into his urgently, restlessly, “Do you think I haven’t- ” She broke off abruptly, releasing a shaky breath and pushing one hand through her lank hair, her eyes flicking toward the ceiling. Then she lowered them back to his, a look of fear coming onto her face, and it for a moment, he thought he could actually hear her teeth scraping together. “They know exactly what’s going on in here. And if I haven’t done what I’m supposed to- Look, I need you to do this for me. It won’t hurt you, I swear. And it-it-It might even make them stop-”
“Stop? Stop what? Claire, are they hurting you here? Are they-”
“Please, Jack. Just-” She looked frustrated, on the verge of tears, “I promise afterward I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, ok?”
He found himself nodding dumbly, sitting down in the chair reluctantly, uncertainly, troubled by the frightened way that she was bent over the table. When she saw him sit down, she began to compose herself, smiling very slightly at him, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glassy with relief. She moved toward a heavy looking bag at her side, opened the drawstring and reached inside. Jack flinched despite himself as she drew her hand out, clutching a small object that he couldn’t see.
“Okay,” she said, setting her small, white-knuckled fist against the edge of the table, “I’m going to put some things out here, on the table. And all I need for you to do is to tell me which one of them is yours.”
“Mine?” he asked, puzzled, “What do you mean, ‘mine’?”
“I can’t explain anymore: You’ll know when you see it,” was her only answer, and he watched her fist open to reveal a small, ordinary packet of matches in a green cardboard case. The case had a logo on it, the name of a bar or restaurant that he didn’t recognize. She set it on the table and then looked at him curiously, her eyes traveling over his face expectantly. He just returned her gaze, perplexed as ever. After a moment, she sighed, reaching into the bag again.
This time, she seemed to be struggling with something heavy.
“Do you need help?” He asked, looking toward the bag curiously.
“No, Jack,” her eyes shot toward him as though she wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to move, “It’s fine. This part-I’ve got to do this part myself.” When she seemed satisfied that he wasn’t getting ready to stop her, she turned back to the bag and dragged out a very old looking pair of iron manacles which looked like they belonged to another century, thick and rusted with age. They clinked together loudly, scraping against the heavy wood table as she set them down next to the matches, using both hands to do it. Then she looked at him again, and asked,
“No?” After a moment, her eyes dropped toward the shackles, flickering over them darkly, “No,” she agreed slowly, “I don’t know how anybody could ever choose these.”
Then, one by one, she brought out an old lock pick, a small, stone arrowhead, and a wooden cross about the size of her hand, pausing in the same way as she put each one on the table.
“That’s everything,” she said when she had finished, looking out at the objects, and then back up at him, “Now, tell me: which of them is yours?”
“Claire-I can’t-” he sighed in frustration, looking back at her, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. None of these things are-I don’t recognize any of them.”
“But you have to choose one, Jack. Think about it. It has to be one of these things.”
“They’re not mine,” he said again, his eyes sweeping over the objects once more, until they suddenly caught on the blue bag that was sitting next to her, “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything? There’s nothing else in that bag, is there?”
He had said it almost without thinking, but as soon as the words left his mouth, her eyes went wide, her hand falling on the sack and clutching it close.
“How did you-” She looked at him horrified, her fingers flexing convulsively over a bulge that had just become visible.
“What is it, Claire?” He asked, “What’s in there?” He stood, unable to restrain his curiosity.
“Jack, don’t-” she said as he moved toward the bag, but didn’t offer any resistance.
“Show it to me,” he insisted, tugging at his tied hands.
Claire’s whole body tensed as she looked at him, coiled like a snake, her free hand clutching the table as if she was trying to break it in half. At first, he thought she was going to simply refuse him, snatch the bag away, or even try to lunge at him, but then all at once, without warning, she slumped forward, the air coming out of her in a quick rush. When she looked back up at him, her whole face looked different: paler, thinner, older.
As she lifted the bag with reluctant, shaking hands, her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something-threaten him, or warn him. But after a long pause, all she did was reach inside and pull out a black pair of men’s dress shoes.
It took him less than a second to recognize them as his father’s-the same ones his father had been wearing before they had put him into the plane-into the coffin.
“Claire,” he said, looking up at her from the shoes, unable to control the sudden twitch in his cheek, “Where did you get those? Did you see-? Did you find my father’s body?”
“Jack-”
“Did you take these from him? Did you see my father?” He could hear his voice shaking, getting louder, but he couldn’t control it anymore: he had forgotten where he was, remembering suddenly his father in the jungle, the suit, the empty coffin, the shoes Claire was still holding in her hands. “Why were you trying to hide them from me?” he demanded, “You knew, didn’t you? You knew that I’d recognize them-that they were mine, and you-”
“They’re not yours, Jack,” Claire countered suddenly, with almost equal anger, as though she was determined to match his.
“What do you mean they’re not mine? He was my father!”
“He was my father too!” She shouted back, slamming her hand down on the table.
~~
Part Nineteen
Characters: Juliet, Jack, Charlotte, Daniel, Hurley, Bernard, Rose, Ben, Claire...
Pairing: Juliet/Jack, hints of Charlotte/Daniel
Rating: R (PG-13 for this part)
Spoilers: Season 4, Season 5 (sort of)
A/N: This part is pretty short, but I'm posting now because this section is taking a really long time for me to write (quite obviously from the ending, there is another major Claire part coming). I'm trying to experiment heavily with the AU plot in this section and I'm not sure yet whether it's working. Moreover, writing nutso!Claire is tough! I tried looking at clips of S6 for inspiration only to remind myself how much the writing sucked in S6. So consider this my answer to the squirrel baby. :)
Please let me know what you think!
~~
“Claire? What are you doing here? Is this-Is this where you’ve been all this time? Are they keeping you prisoner?” He moved forward awkwardly, his impulse to reach for her thwarted when he remembered that his hands were still tied behind his back. “You haven’t seen Juliet, have you? Or Charlotte and Dan-I mean, uh, a red-haired woman, or a man with a beard?”
“Sorry,” she shrugged, “I don’t exactly get out much these days.” She looked up at him, fixing him with her eyes, her lip curling slightly as if she was waiting for him to get the joke. Then, abruptly, her whole manner changed. Her expression went serious as she rolled the sleeves of her faded shirt up over her elbows.
“Listen, Jack, I know you have lots of questions for me, and I’ll be happy to answer all of them for you when we’re finished, but there’s something that we have to do first.”
“What is it?” he asked, leaning toward her. She folded her hands together quickly.
“I have to give you a test.”
“What?” He took a quick, alarmed step backward, remembering what Juliet had told him before they’d been separated.
“Hey,” she reached out toward him, “Don’t worry: I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not one of those tests. This one won’t hurt at all. All you have to do is sit down in that chair across the table and answer some questions.”
“Claire-” he interrupted, ignoring her, “If it’s Ben that’s making you do this-we can try to get out of here together. When Cindy and Brian come back, we could-we could take them by surprise: they won’t be expecting both of us to-”
“Jack-please,” She leaned forward suddenly, her eyes focusing for the first time, moving to look into his urgently, restlessly, “Do you think I haven’t- ” She broke off abruptly, releasing a shaky breath and pushing one hand through her lank hair, her eyes flicking toward the ceiling. Then she lowered them back to his, a look of fear coming onto her face, and it for a moment, he thought he could actually hear her teeth scraping together. “They know exactly what’s going on in here. And if I haven’t done what I’m supposed to- Look, I need you to do this for me. It won’t hurt you, I swear. And it-it-It might even make them stop-”
“Stop? Stop what? Claire, are they hurting you here? Are they-”
“Please, Jack. Just-” She looked frustrated, on the verge of tears, “I promise afterward I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, ok?”
He found himself nodding dumbly, sitting down in the chair reluctantly, uncertainly, troubled by the frightened way that she was bent over the table. When she saw him sit down, she began to compose herself, smiling very slightly at him, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glassy with relief. She moved toward a heavy looking bag at her side, opened the drawstring and reached inside. Jack flinched despite himself as she drew her hand out, clutching a small object that he couldn’t see.
“Okay,” she said, setting her small, white-knuckled fist against the edge of the table, “I’m going to put some things out here, on the table. And all I need for you to do is to tell me which one of them is yours.”
“Mine?” he asked, puzzled, “What do you mean, ‘mine’?”
“I can’t explain anymore: You’ll know when you see it,” was her only answer, and he watched her fist open to reveal a small, ordinary packet of matches in a green cardboard case. The case had a logo on it, the name of a bar or restaurant that he didn’t recognize. She set it on the table and then looked at him curiously, her eyes traveling over his face expectantly. He just returned her gaze, perplexed as ever. After a moment, she sighed, reaching into the bag again.
This time, she seemed to be struggling with something heavy.
“Do you need help?” He asked, looking toward the bag curiously.
“No, Jack,” her eyes shot toward him as though she wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to move, “It’s fine. This part-I’ve got to do this part myself.” When she seemed satisfied that he wasn’t getting ready to stop her, she turned back to the bag and dragged out a very old looking pair of iron manacles which looked like they belonged to another century, thick and rusted with age. They clinked together loudly, scraping against the heavy wood table as she set them down next to the matches, using both hands to do it. Then she looked at him again, and asked,
“No?” After a moment, her eyes dropped toward the shackles, flickering over them darkly, “No,” she agreed slowly, “I don’t know how anybody could ever choose these.”
Then, one by one, she brought out an old lock pick, a small, stone arrowhead, and a wooden cross about the size of her hand, pausing in the same way as she put each one on the table.
“That’s everything,” she said when she had finished, looking out at the objects, and then back up at him, “Now, tell me: which of them is yours?”
“Claire-I can’t-” he sighed in frustration, looking back at her, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. None of these things are-I don’t recognize any of them.”
“But you have to choose one, Jack. Think about it. It has to be one of these things.”
“They’re not mine,” he said again, his eyes sweeping over the objects once more, until they suddenly caught on the blue bag that was sitting next to her, “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything? There’s nothing else in that bag, is there?”
He had said it almost without thinking, but as soon as the words left his mouth, her eyes went wide, her hand falling on the sack and clutching it close.
“How did you-” She looked at him horrified, her fingers flexing convulsively over a bulge that had just become visible.
“What is it, Claire?” He asked, “What’s in there?” He stood, unable to restrain his curiosity.
“Jack, don’t-” she said as he moved toward the bag, but didn’t offer any resistance.
“Show it to me,” he insisted, tugging at his tied hands.
Claire’s whole body tensed as she looked at him, coiled like a snake, her free hand clutching the table as if she was trying to break it in half. At first, he thought she was going to simply refuse him, snatch the bag away, or even try to lunge at him, but then all at once, without warning, she slumped forward, the air coming out of her in a quick rush. When she looked back up at him, her whole face looked different: paler, thinner, older.
As she lifted the bag with reluctant, shaking hands, her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something-threaten him, or warn him. But after a long pause, all she did was reach inside and pull out a black pair of men’s dress shoes.
It took him less than a second to recognize them as his father’s-the same ones his father had been wearing before they had put him into the plane-into the coffin.
“Claire,” he said, looking up at her from the shoes, unable to control the sudden twitch in his cheek, “Where did you get those? Did you see-? Did you find my father’s body?”
“Jack-”
“Did you take these from him? Did you see my father?” He could hear his voice shaking, getting louder, but he couldn’t control it anymore: he had forgotten where he was, remembering suddenly his father in the jungle, the suit, the empty coffin, the shoes Claire was still holding in her hands. “Why were you trying to hide them from me?” he demanded, “You knew, didn’t you? You knew that I’d recognize them-that they were mine, and you-”
“They’re not yours, Jack,” Claire countered suddenly, with almost equal anger, as though she was determined to match his.
“What do you mean they’re not mine? He was my father!”
“He was my father too!” She shouted back, slamming her hand down on the table.
~~
Part Nineteen