Fanfic: Bullets and Prophets
Title: Bullets and Prophets
Rating: T
Characters: Jack/Kate
Summary: This is not our war but we have been chosen to fight it. It is our blood that has been spilled on the jungle floor, our blood that seeps into the island soil and our friends who lay six feet under.
AN: Ok… so this is based on an Arabic song called Ijtah (Invade) for Oumeima al Khalil. I hope I was able to do the song justice because it is a masterpiece. And, also, this is the first time that I write in the first person, so I hope I managed to pull that off too. It’s a slight AU/what if scenario, the premise of which is a war waging on the island and the Losties being stuck in the middle of it.
His eyes dart around the room frantically, as he tries to catch his breath. I bend down, trembling hands resting on my knees, and I hiss in pain from the scratches on my palm.
I pull the gun from the waistband of my worn-out jeans and throw it onto the make shift bed, relieved to finally get rid of its offending weight. I look over at Jack and I swallow a sob at the sight of his gun firmly grasped in his hand. That hand that was made to carry a scalpel and save lives is now an expert at handling a weapon that takes lives.
He makes his way past me to peer outside, to check into the darkness around us, to make sure we have not been followed. His fingers grip the gun tighter, his jaw is clenched, and the vein in his neck throbs erratically. I do not think he is aware of my presence there until I move in next to him, to have a look for myself, and his hand, rough and callused, finds my waist and pulls me behind him, making his body my shield. I grip the back of his shirt between my fingers and the blood on my hand mixes with that on his shirt as we cautiously listen to the thick, menacing silence.
Morning will be back in a few hours. It will be back, calling us onto the battlefield yet again, to fight a war we have been thrust into, a war designed to consume us. We have been in the middle of this for months now, in the middle of a war using us as its pawns, a war waged between angels and demons, between men and ghosts, gods and prophets. This is not our war but we have been chosen to fight it. It is our blood that has been spilled on the jungle floor, our blood that seeps into the island soil and our friends who lay six feet under.
Our frenzied heartbeats are all I can hear. I wrap my arms around his chest from my position behind him. My palm lands over his heart. Somehow, the rise and fall of his chest helps my own breathing to calm down and I feel his heartbeat slow down under my finger tips. I step back, away from the window, hoping he would do the same. When he doesn’t I break the silence to whisper his name,
Jack.
It comes out as a strangled sob. He turns around and our eyes meet for the first time since we have made it back to our shelter. His eyes scan over my body with purpose, trying to register any injuries, any major injuries. I close my eyes, shut them tight. I do not want him to look at me like that, like a doctor, like a soldier. I need him to look at as Jack. I need him to look at my body as my lover. Right now, that is what I need him to be.
I hear a heavy thud and open my eyes to see him sitting now, his back against the wall, his head thrown back and his eyes shut. This is when I notice them, a gash on his forehead and another one across his right eyebrow. I walk over to him and kneel between his legs. I try to stop my hand from shaking as I bring it to his face, trying to wipe away the blood, dirt and sweat, wanting more than anything to see his beautiful face. He winces under my touch, and I whisper an apology.
My tears fall freely against my cheeks, washing away the blood and dirt gathered on my face. The cuts on my cheek burn and I hiss.
Fuck.
I try to wipe the salty tears away from my wound with the back of my hand. My other hand leaves Jack’s face and I rest my forehead against his knee. His fingers wrap around my forearm, tightly, and it should hurt, but I need this as much as he does, the feeling of his skin against mine, the pressure, the urge not to let go. He stands up and pulls me up with him. He walks us over to the makeshift bed and sits me down. I watch his tired shoulders as he walks over to the small water basin in corner. He takes his shirt off and quickly washes his chest and back, takes a piece of cloth, dips it in the water and walks back over to me. He kneels down in front of me and his touch is gentle. The cool, wet cloth presses against my face, soothingly over my wounds, and his other hand grips mine. My eyes scan over his chest, covered in a new pattern of the island’s design, one of scars and wounds, of black and blue bruises.
I thought I’d lost you.
I manage to utter the words that have haunted me all day. We got separated yesterday. Ever since this war started, we have fought each day side by side, watched our group of forty three shrink to nine, but yesterday, we got separated. Jack and James had separated from the rest of the group. Sayid feared them dead when we got nothing this morning, but I just would not accept it, neither would Juliet. Together we went off into enemy territory. We found James by midday. He had us almost convinced to give up our search for Jack when we stumbled upon him just after sun set. Together we’d managed to leave our position from behind enemy lines and back to our camp.
Each morning is a new start, a new lifeline, and each evening is a reminder that the next could be our last. Our lives are short, and meaningless to those who control this game. To feel alive again is all I need right now. To feel alive in a way only he can make me feel. I need him to remind me that I might have no tomorrow and that my yesterday is gone. I look into his eyes and beg him, beg him to make me feel just that, just now. And he knows just what I need.
The silence outside is menacing, but the silence within me is deafening, crippling, and I need him to bring back the sounds that remind me of normalcy. His hands are on my face, strong, rough and scratched, exactly what I need.
His lips are on mine, kissing, biting, begging for entrance. I kiss him back with equal fervor, bite his lower lip and I know I will draw blood. He pushes me back against the bed, trapping my body under his. The gun I had discarded earlier presses harshly into my back, an arrogant reminder of what our life has become, and the tease of its danger is strangely exciting. He bites my neck, knowing he will leave a mark, and I claw at his back, adding my scratches to all the others he had collected over the past months; claiming him harder, deeper than this war and this godforsaken place have. He pulls at my shirt, close to tearing it, and I have to stop him because it is the last I have left. I grip his wrist in my hand, and I am stronger than I thought I would be.
He looks at me, his eyes darker than the dangerous night looming outside our shelter. It does not scare me because I know mine are just as dark; dark with lust and passion, but more so, dark with anger, fear and madness. The madness that is brought to us from the game we are made to play. I pull my shirt over my head unceremoniously and he takes my bra off after it, not caring to unhook it first. His lips and teeth are back on my skin and I shudder under his touch, wanting him to bring the chaos from the battle field into this, into us, into me. The madness outside ravishes our everyday life, but the madness I live inside me is more devastating than that outside can ever be. And he sees my madness because it boils in him too. I need him to pour his into mine, to let us explode, tonight and demolish the darkness looming around us.
This is not soft and gentle, not slow and sweet. This is not making love. This is rough, hard and urgent. This is madness. This is a war, and invasion. It is an invasion of two bodies torn apart by anarchy, an invasion of senses numbed by deceit and turmoil. This is chaos and anger. I need him to wage his war through me, to forget about the one we have to fight everyday and find a new purpose within me. I need him to make me forget the battles that rage outside these walls, to make me scream so that I can ignore the screams and cries that echo through our little cracked window.
So I whisper in his ear, beg him, urge him to give me just that. And he complies. He rocks against me, rocks through, and in his frenzy knows just where to touch, where to hit, where to kiss, to send me higher and higher until I snap. I shake under him and he holds me to him. He sends me high, and I fall, my eyes roll back and I swear I can hear bells going loose in my head. I fall and he’s there to catch me, hold me tight until I can breathe again.
His fingers tread through my damp curls and he kisses my forehead, the gentleness in his act brings tears to my eyes. I thrust against him and my lips find his ear, and I urge him again to let go, I want him to be consumed by the same madness that had just plundered through me. I know he needs it more than I do.
He collapses his tired, worn out body on top of mine. I run my fingers through his hair, short, black and soft. He deprives me from his body on top of mine and rolls over to lie next to me. He is on his side, his breath warm and steady against my cheek. His hand travels down my chest and lands on my stomach. His thumb draws circles just below my bellybutton.
I am beginning to show. Neither of us dares to say it out loud because it will make it all real, but we both notice the little baby bump under his fingers. Neither of us is ready to admit that out child might be born into this world, into this madness, darkness and chaos. We did not mean for this to happen. When we talked about it, the future of our child was a happy, peaceful and beautiful one. But now, all we can see is a bleak, ugly and scary reality, of blood, hatred and death. I know if there is any reason why either us us manages to survive this each day, it is for the life we created together, to end this war and be able to provide it with the world it deserves to live in. I am scared, and so is Jack, and I know his hand against my stomach and searching for something, a kick, a heartbeat, something that assures him our child is ok.
I look over to him and his brow is knotted in confusion, concentration and trepidation. I smooth it over with my thumb and gently caress his cheek. He looks up at me, and manages a small smile.
I just want to make sure she is ok.
I put my hand over his and guide it over to where I feel a little movement.
He’s perfect.