LOST Fic - Plain Sight - Shannon and Christian
Title: Plain Sight
Author: tinkerbell99
Fandom: LOST (I know, right? Long time no see...)
Characters: Christian Shephard, Shannon Rutherford
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This isn't the kind of place he prefers. It's just that it is the kind of place he belongs. They both know the parts they're supposed to play.
Jaw clenched, he makes sure no one is watching and tries again.
Inch by inch, he raises his hand. Wills it not to shake. Breath burns captive in his lungs while he completes the familiar test.
Inch by inch. Fingers hover over the glass. He waits.
Cold light from the dining area catches on his wedding band. Sparks of golden light skitter when he trembles, dancing erratically across the mahogany bar. He pushes out an angry breath.
His blue eyes close in defeat, palm flattened in failure against the gleaming wood.
***
This isn't the kind of place he prefers. It's just that it is the kind of place he belongs. The kind of place doctor - surgeon - Christian Shephard should frequent. Truth be known, he'd be more comfortable in the foggy smoke and late hours of some anonymous dive bar; the clean light and sharp lines of a high class restaurant at noon on a Wednesday don't suit his mood.
Ironic, he thinks, sipping amber from a glass. His tailored suit and neat white cuffs make him more invisible in a place like this than any smoke filled din. Hiding in plain sight. He smirks and orders another.
He takes a moment, observes the crowd of lawyers and CEOs and doctors seated at white linen tables. They're all alike, he thinks. One the same as the next and all of them look just like him. He's never felt more alone.
One thumb circles the rim of his glass before lifting higher, higher -
"What can I get you, miss?"
His hand closes over the glass, heart quickening in his chest.
No, no one had seen.
(No one but him.)
"Whiskey, please," the woman next to him orders in a practiced breathy sigh, drumming long fingers against the bar. Their pastel tips click lightly on the wood. He notices their certainty, their steadiness, with what seems like greed.
His lip curls into a smirk. "The drink of the gods," he offers while grimly raising up his glass.
The woman doesn't respond. He drinks the toast alone.
She's fumbling through her purse. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to have...I can't find my credit card..." Receipts and makeup are shoved to the side and the woman, swiping blonde hair away from her eyes, sways in her heels.
He watches, takes in the details with a surgeon's precision. She's younger than he thought. Little more than a waif, her makeup is smudged and it's not the first drink she'll have today.
He knows the part he's supposed to play. "I've got it," he offers. "Put it on my bill."
The disinterested bartender wanders away.
The woman (girl he thinks) bites her lip in a carefully rehearsed child's ploy. "Thanks." She graces him with a gaze, eyes held just a little too wide.
"Who am I to deny Aphrodite her nectar?" He watches unashamed as she ducks her head, a pretense of embarrassment crossing her features. He tries not to notice her shudder as she swallows the drink.
He signals to the bartender to bring her another.
She smiles a coy little smile. "So," and suddenly she's edging closer with her eyes on the gold watch binding his wrist, "what's your name?" She's good at this game, this masquerade.
He lays down his drink, studies the serpent before him. Flattens his hand on the table and leans in too close. She's good at this game, but he's used to playing with different rules. "What's yours?" He successfully challenges her childish play.
She's not quick enough to hide the fear in her eyes. Licking her lips, she resumes her careful expression. "Shannon," and her eyes hold a dare he's not willing to take.
"Shannon," he repeats just a little too loud. Leaning back, he smiles a quick wolfish grin. "Shannon," he exclaims again. He's drawn the attention of a nearby table. Eyeing her with a predator's gaze, he lowers his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Sugar and spice and everything nice," and she knows he's seen right through her disguise.
Eyes hardening, she stiffens away. Tries one last mocking dare. "I'm not a little girl," she bites. Her eyes lower with an intentional challenge.
"No," he agrees, draining his latest glass. His fingers find the curve of her wrist, wolfish gaze dragging over her form. Resting too long in all the wrong places. "That you are not."
"Then what-"
"We both know exactly what you are." His voice is low and deadly. She snatches her wrist away from his grasp.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Shannon," he moistens his lips, "that you're hiding here in plain sight. But don't worry," he adds with something like a smile. "You're not the only one."
Her heels are loud on the floor.
Another part of a failed disguise.
***
He doesn't watch her leave. Just circles one thumb around the rim of his glass before lifting his hand, suspending it inches above the bar in its familiar test.
He breathes. He swallows.
"Steady as a stone," he directs the comment to the bartender, who turns from his business with a wary lean.
"You want another?"
Christian's hands are folded before the words die on the bartender's lips.
"Sure."
Hiding here, where he belongs.
Author's Note: Good grief, I just wrote LOST fic again! So, something like five years ago I had this idea and jotted it down. Today, I actually wrote it. Go figure. Of all the fic I ever wrote for Lost, Midnight in the Garden remains my favorite. I like to think this takes place in the same little world.
Author: tinkerbell99
Fandom: LOST (I know, right? Long time no see...)
Characters: Christian Shephard, Shannon Rutherford
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This isn't the kind of place he prefers. It's just that it is the kind of place he belongs. They both know the parts they're supposed to play.
Jaw clenched, he makes sure no one is watching and tries again.
Inch by inch, he raises his hand. Wills it not to shake. Breath burns captive in his lungs while he completes the familiar test.
Inch by inch. Fingers hover over the glass. He waits.
Cold light from the dining area catches on his wedding band. Sparks of golden light skitter when he trembles, dancing erratically across the mahogany bar. He pushes out an angry breath.
His blue eyes close in defeat, palm flattened in failure against the gleaming wood.
***
This isn't the kind of place he prefers. It's just that it is the kind of place he belongs. The kind of place doctor - surgeon - Christian Shephard should frequent. Truth be known, he'd be more comfortable in the foggy smoke and late hours of some anonymous dive bar; the clean light and sharp lines of a high class restaurant at noon on a Wednesday don't suit his mood.
Ironic, he thinks, sipping amber from a glass. His tailored suit and neat white cuffs make him more invisible in a place like this than any smoke filled din. Hiding in plain sight. He smirks and orders another.
He takes a moment, observes the crowd of lawyers and CEOs and doctors seated at white linen tables. They're all alike, he thinks. One the same as the next and all of them look just like him. He's never felt more alone.
One thumb circles the rim of his glass before lifting higher, higher -
"What can I get you, miss?"
His hand closes over the glass, heart quickening in his chest.
No, no one had seen.
(No one but him.)
"Whiskey, please," the woman next to him orders in a practiced breathy sigh, drumming long fingers against the bar. Their pastel tips click lightly on the wood. He notices their certainty, their steadiness, with what seems like greed.
His lip curls into a smirk. "The drink of the gods," he offers while grimly raising up his glass.
The woman doesn't respond. He drinks the toast alone.
She's fumbling through her purse. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to have...I can't find my credit card..." Receipts and makeup are shoved to the side and the woman, swiping blonde hair away from her eyes, sways in her heels.
He watches, takes in the details with a surgeon's precision. She's younger than he thought. Little more than a waif, her makeup is smudged and it's not the first drink she'll have today.
He knows the part he's supposed to play. "I've got it," he offers. "Put it on my bill."
The disinterested bartender wanders away.
The woman (girl he thinks) bites her lip in a carefully rehearsed child's ploy. "Thanks." She graces him with a gaze, eyes held just a little too wide.
"Who am I to deny Aphrodite her nectar?" He watches unashamed as she ducks her head, a pretense of embarrassment crossing her features. He tries not to notice her shudder as she swallows the drink.
He signals to the bartender to bring her another.
She smiles a coy little smile. "So," and suddenly she's edging closer with her eyes on the gold watch binding his wrist, "what's your name?" She's good at this game, this masquerade.
He lays down his drink, studies the serpent before him. Flattens his hand on the table and leans in too close. She's good at this game, but he's used to playing with different rules. "What's yours?" He successfully challenges her childish play.
She's not quick enough to hide the fear in her eyes. Licking her lips, she resumes her careful expression. "Shannon," and her eyes hold a dare he's not willing to take.
"Shannon," he repeats just a little too loud. Leaning back, he smiles a quick wolfish grin. "Shannon," he exclaims again. He's drawn the attention of a nearby table. Eyeing her with a predator's gaze, he lowers his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Sugar and spice and everything nice," and she knows he's seen right through her disguise.
Eyes hardening, she stiffens away. Tries one last mocking dare. "I'm not a little girl," she bites. Her eyes lower with an intentional challenge.
"No," he agrees, draining his latest glass. His fingers find the curve of her wrist, wolfish gaze dragging over her form. Resting too long in all the wrong places. "That you are not."
"Then what-"
"We both know exactly what you are." His voice is low and deadly. She snatches her wrist away from his grasp.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Shannon," he moistens his lips, "that you're hiding here in plain sight. But don't worry," he adds with something like a smile. "You're not the only one."
Her heels are loud on the floor.
Another part of a failed disguise.
***
He doesn't watch her leave. Just circles one thumb around the rim of his glass before lifting his hand, suspending it inches above the bar in its familiar test.
He breathes. He swallows.
"Steady as a stone," he directs the comment to the bartender, who turns from his business with a wary lean.
"You want another?"
Christian's hands are folded before the words die on the bartender's lips.
"Sure."
Hiding here, where he belongs.
Author's Note: Good grief, I just wrote LOST fic again! So, something like five years ago I had this idea and jotted it down. Today, I actually wrote it. Go figure. Of all the fic I ever wrote for Lost, Midnight in the Garden remains my favorite. I like to think this takes place in the same little world.