LOST - run miles in the dark
Title: run miles in the dark
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jack/Kate
Summary: She remembers him being angry and her being crazy and the way her tears melted away into his skin and the flavor of some kind of fruit residual in her mouth for days after. She remembers his voice and his arms and the endless green. AU.
Author’s Notes: For the fantabulous hintofawhisper . This fic involves a baby, so be warned. Only for you, dear, only for you. ;)
We should all be able to start over.
-Tabula Rasa (1.03)
first.
Jack smells like salt and sweat and fresh-ironed shirts and tastes clean and warm, like the coffee they had earlier. He runs his hands through her hair, pulling her in; she closes her eyes and imagines the sound of the ocean in his breathing, sees an interminable stretch of sky and sand rising up in the whites of his eyes. She sees everything behind her closed eyes. The darkness is flooded in light and the salt sticks to the back of her throat.
His mouth is light and tentative and she still hasn't opened her eyes and suddenly he is not kissing her at all. She blinks and leans her forehead against his chest, the crisp white fabric not even begun to be undone, the heart pounding hard beneath. His hands rest warm upon her forearms. The rain pounds down harder and the sound hits like gravel on the roof. She remembers the last (the only) time they stood like this. She remembers him being angry and her being crazy and the way her tears melted away into his skin and the flavor of some kind of fruit residual in her mouth for days after. She remembers his voice and his arms and the endless green. She remembers the fear.
Now there is no fear. She is safe(r) and he is very quietly, very gently asking her if she is okay. (Of course she is. Of course she isn't. Of course I will. Yes.)
She smiles up into his dark eyes. Her arms lock around his neck. She feels him shiver and then grow very still.
"I'm great." His pulse jumps erratic against the palm of her hand.
second.
He is home at eight on New Year's Eve, just in time. He hangs up his coat in the closet and she turns on Dick Clark and they watch and don't watch, just loud enough for Kate to catch the voices. It's a game, sort of. She watches him watching her watch the TV. And then he stops watching and just stares at her and she laughs and they begin again. She watches the red and green and blue lights play across his face and toys with his wristwatch, slipping the chain through and around her fingers. She curls her legs through his, and later he says he loves her, and Kate stretches and breathes, in, out. She loves him, too. She does. It is worth saying it just for the look on his face, the way it lights up and glows.
third.
Her dress only reaches to her knees; the church is only half-full. This will not be in a bridal magazine and it doesn't look as if it is trying to be. Jack's mother dabs at her eyes. The minister asks for their rings and she hears someone coughing, someone else whispering, and the stale sunlight filtering through the rafters sticks to her skin, clings to his nervous grin. She twists her warm fingers through Jack's cold and kisses him and the organ crashes and swells. Their hands close the space between them. Outside, his arm covers her shoulders and flashbulbs burst as he opens the car door for her. The sky is gray. Kate does not close her eyes.
fourth.
She throws up. Once, then twice. She washes out the sink and brushes her teeth and then braces herself against the countertop for a long twenty minutes, the edge digging into her palms. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet and peeks through her fingers at the result. And then, very slowly, very calmly, she goes back to bed.
Jack reaches for her, arms and voice heavy with sleep. He is so tired lately--tired all the time. On the days he doesn't work sometimes he doesn't make it out of bed until ten. He always apologizes, says he doesn't know what happened, and she always laughs it off, says she'll have to buy him a new alarm clock. She doesn't know if it's the island or the being away from it that has done this to him.
"Jack," she whispers. He turns his head and opens his eyes, running a hand down over his face, leaning up on his elbows.
"Kate?"
She kisses him before he can start--"what's wrong?" and "are you okay?" and all of that. "I'm having a baby," she says when he looks sufficiently awake. He stares, eyes moving back and forth, all over her, glistening in the darkness, almost as though he doesn't believe her. And then he smiles. And kisses her back.
last.
Kate dreams in colors. She dreams of oceans and fast-running streams and the water slipping through her fingers and a hand closing tight around hers. When she dreams of home she doesn't dream of wide-open spaces anymore--she dreams of her family and the way she loves them, how it fills her up until she can't breathe. The sky not grey above them. Of how things were and of how things are and of how things will never be the same. Each dream is a remembrance. She remembers running. She remembers the fall. She remembers her baby, both of them, the one that wasn't hers and the one that was. She remembers the sound of his breathing, low. She remembers the sound of the ocean, carrying her away.
She opens her eyes when the dreams are over. The ocean she thought she heard is the air conditioner. Jack is smiling, and it's time to get up, and she remembers, remembers for good: this is not a memory. This is real. At least--it can be.
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jack/Kate
Summary: She remembers him being angry and her being crazy and the way her tears melted away into his skin and the flavor of some kind of fruit residual in her mouth for days after. She remembers his voice and his arms and the endless green. AU.
Author’s Notes: For the fantabulous hintofawhisper . This fic involves a baby, so be warned. Only for you, dear, only for you. ;)
We should all be able to start over.
-Tabula Rasa (1.03)
first.
Jack smells like salt and sweat and fresh-ironed shirts and tastes clean and warm, like the coffee they had earlier. He runs his hands through her hair, pulling her in; she closes her eyes and imagines the sound of the ocean in his breathing, sees an interminable stretch of sky and sand rising up in the whites of his eyes. She sees everything behind her closed eyes. The darkness is flooded in light and the salt sticks to the back of her throat.
His mouth is light and tentative and she still hasn't opened her eyes and suddenly he is not kissing her at all. She blinks and leans her forehead against his chest, the crisp white fabric not even begun to be undone, the heart pounding hard beneath. His hands rest warm upon her forearms. The rain pounds down harder and the sound hits like gravel on the roof. She remembers the last (the only) time they stood like this. She remembers him being angry and her being crazy and the way her tears melted away into his skin and the flavor of some kind of fruit residual in her mouth for days after. She remembers his voice and his arms and the endless green. She remembers the fear.
Now there is no fear. She is safe(r) and he is very quietly, very gently asking her if she is okay. (Of course she is. Of course she isn't. Of course I will. Yes.)
She smiles up into his dark eyes. Her arms lock around his neck. She feels him shiver and then grow very still.
"I'm great." His pulse jumps erratic against the palm of her hand.
second.
He is home at eight on New Year's Eve, just in time. He hangs up his coat in the closet and she turns on Dick Clark and they watch and don't watch, just loud enough for Kate to catch the voices. It's a game, sort of. She watches him watching her watch the TV. And then he stops watching and just stares at her and she laughs and they begin again. She watches the red and green and blue lights play across his face and toys with his wristwatch, slipping the chain through and around her fingers. She curls her legs through his, and later he says he loves her, and Kate stretches and breathes, in, out. She loves him, too. She does. It is worth saying it just for the look on his face, the way it lights up and glows.
third.
Her dress only reaches to her knees; the church is only half-full. This will not be in a bridal magazine and it doesn't look as if it is trying to be. Jack's mother dabs at her eyes. The minister asks for their rings and she hears someone coughing, someone else whispering, and the stale sunlight filtering through the rafters sticks to her skin, clings to his nervous grin. She twists her warm fingers through Jack's cold and kisses him and the organ crashes and swells. Their hands close the space between them. Outside, his arm covers her shoulders and flashbulbs burst as he opens the car door for her. The sky is gray. Kate does not close her eyes.
fourth.
She throws up. Once, then twice. She washes out the sink and brushes her teeth and then braces herself against the countertop for a long twenty minutes, the edge digging into her palms. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet and peeks through her fingers at the result. And then, very slowly, very calmly, she goes back to bed.
Jack reaches for her, arms and voice heavy with sleep. He is so tired lately--tired all the time. On the days he doesn't work sometimes he doesn't make it out of bed until ten. He always apologizes, says he doesn't know what happened, and she always laughs it off, says she'll have to buy him a new alarm clock. She doesn't know if it's the island or the being away from it that has done this to him.
"Jack," she whispers. He turns his head and opens his eyes, running a hand down over his face, leaning up on his elbows.
"Kate?"
She kisses him before he can start--"what's wrong?" and "are you okay?" and all of that. "I'm having a baby," she says when he looks sufficiently awake. He stares, eyes moving back and forth, all over her, glistening in the darkness, almost as though he doesn't believe her. And then he smiles. And kisses her back.
last.
Kate dreams in colors. She dreams of oceans and fast-running streams and the water slipping through her fingers and a hand closing tight around hers. When she dreams of home she doesn't dream of wide-open spaces anymore--she dreams of her family and the way she loves them, how it fills her up until she can't breathe. The sky not grey above them. Of how things were and of how things are and of how things will never be the same. Each dream is a remembrance. She remembers running. She remembers the fall. She remembers her baby, both of them, the one that wasn't hers and the one that was. She remembers the sound of his breathing, low. She remembers the sound of the ocean, carrying her away.
She opens her eyes when the dreams are over. The ocean she thought she heard is the air conditioner. Jack is smiling, and it's time to get up, and she remembers, remembers for good: this is not a memory. This is real. At least--it can be.