They don't know nothing about redemption
Title: They don't know nothing about redemption
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Kate
Rating: PG
Summary: She runs. He follows. Post-The Incident.
Spoilers: Up to end of S5, I guess.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Oh hai! Apparently I write angsty Kate/Jack fic now. Title from Against Me!.
----
I don't love you.
(It hurts less, when she says it, than the first time.)
----
I don't love you.
She hangs the phone up fast, leaves his head spinning and the whisper of her words still in his ear. He's getting better at finding her these days -- Missouri, Indiana, Georgia, they're all the same. Motels and truck stops and greasy diners; same stretch of slate-grey highway that never ends, only changes seasons and degrees and how many pills he can pocket. She travels back roads, old routes, keeps off the radar; dumps wigs in trash bins and keeps a thick fold of passports deep in her backpack, a gun between mattress and pillow.
She runs.
He follows.
----
I don't love you.
It's like a code, he thinks, the air thick as glass between them; a cipher. A clue. He pushes hard against her, so much smoke in the room it's almost blue and feedback whining from the shitty bar band's broken-down amp. She's wrapped in it -- the smell, this place, desperation clinging tendrils around her wrists (too thin, he considers, is she even eating?), her smile, in between every word and moment and sad, harsh sigh.
Her hands find his shirt and she clutches at the fabric, face turned down and away and stop with the pity, Jack, she'd spat. I don't need it.
(I don't need you, is what he hears. Most of the time he doesn't -- can't, won't -- believe her.)
----
I don't love you.
The motel sheets itch, scratch; he counts dim lights from passing cars as they slice across the orange-red walls. Let me, he murmurs to her back, all planes of shadow and light, hair tangled and loose across the pillow (she won't cut it, fingers the curls with childish insolence whenever he asks, insists it's safer; he stops wondering why).
Hollow, heavy breath -- she's awake, he knows -- is all he gets in reply.
----
I don't love you.
Three months later and his coffee cup is halfway to his mouth when he drops the morning newspaper with stuttering, stumbling hands, watches the grey and black flutter and spill onto the kitchen floor, can barely read the words blazing across the front page -- a standoff at some gas station just outside L.A., fugitive goes down in a hail of bullets, justice served. Her name echoes through his bones, over and over, grief clamping hard in his gut, and every piece, every part of him feels so cold --
Kate.
-- and this, this is finally his proof.
----
I don't love you.
(The truth is it never stops.)
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Kate
Rating: PG
Summary: She runs. He follows. Post-The Incident.
Spoilers: Up to end of S5, I guess.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Oh hai! Apparently I write angsty Kate/Jack fic now. Title from Against Me!.
----
I don't love you.
(It hurts less, when she says it, than the first time.)
----
I don't love you.
She hangs the phone up fast, leaves his head spinning and the whisper of her words still in his ear. He's getting better at finding her these days -- Missouri, Indiana, Georgia, they're all the same. Motels and truck stops and greasy diners; same stretch of slate-grey highway that never ends, only changes seasons and degrees and how many pills he can pocket. She travels back roads, old routes, keeps off the radar; dumps wigs in trash bins and keeps a thick fold of passports deep in her backpack, a gun between mattress and pillow.
She runs.
He follows.
----
I don't love you.
It's like a code, he thinks, the air thick as glass between them; a cipher. A clue. He pushes hard against her, so much smoke in the room it's almost blue and feedback whining from the shitty bar band's broken-down amp. She's wrapped in it -- the smell, this place, desperation clinging tendrils around her wrists (too thin, he considers, is she even eating?), her smile, in between every word and moment and sad, harsh sigh.
Her hands find his shirt and she clutches at the fabric, face turned down and away and stop with the pity, Jack, she'd spat. I don't need it.
(I don't need you, is what he hears. Most of the time he doesn't -- can't, won't -- believe her.)
----
I don't love you.
The motel sheets itch, scratch; he counts dim lights from passing cars as they slice across the orange-red walls. Let me, he murmurs to her back, all planes of shadow and light, hair tangled and loose across the pillow (she won't cut it, fingers the curls with childish insolence whenever he asks, insists it's safer; he stops wondering why).
Hollow, heavy breath -- she's awake, he knows -- is all he gets in reply.
----
I don't love you.
Three months later and his coffee cup is halfway to his mouth when he drops the morning newspaper with stuttering, stumbling hands, watches the grey and black flutter and spill onto the kitchen floor, can barely read the words blazing across the front page -- a standoff at some gas station just outside L.A., fugitive goes down in a hail of bullets, justice served. Her name echoes through his bones, over and over, grief clamping hard in his gut, and every piece, every part of him feels so cold --
Kate.
-- and this, this is finally his proof.
----
I don't love you.
(The truth is it never stops.)