this monster we call vengeance (juliet/christian, r)
Title: this monster we call vengeance
Author: cloudytea
Characters/Parings: Juliet/Christian
Rating: R
Summary: It's funny how things work out.
She is blonde and beautiful and blue-eyed and the last thing he expects out of her is an impressive résumé to rival many of his own top researchers.
Juliet Burke, she holds her hand out and he takes it, noting her strong grip and an intensity in her eyes that easily outweighs that of his other female colleagues. He’s got a son about her age, but Christ, it wouldn’t be the first time he let his eyes wander over such youthful territory.
The Chief Surgeon of St. Sebastian’s buys the respectable researcher a drink, Dr. Shephard admires her groundbreaking papers (and long, slender legs), Christian slurs his words and flirtatiously mentions the name of the hotel he’s staying in.
They arrive there in ten minutes and he tips the taxi driver quite generously.
When the whiskey wears off the next morning, he knows this is just a one-time thing. He goes home to Los Angeles, thinking it as an occasional speed bump in his otherwise straight-laced life. Juliet goes back to her broken marriage and sleeps in a bed her husband also shares with research assistants and secretaries.
All’s as it should be -- outward appearances casually gloss over painful flaws, all-too-real to be ignored. But they are. Just as they have always been.
Her marriage to Edmund is on its last leg when she attends the annual conference in St. Louis.
She’s on stage presenting her latest findings (edmund‘s fucking his latest prodigy right now, she thinks to herself) and catches the bright blue eyes of her former conquest, taking notes like any other attendee.
Vengeance has a name and its name is Christian Shephard.
They meet for dinner and conversation never leaves the professional front.
My son’s just completed his residency, he mentions casually and takes a sip of red wine. Kid can’t handle a goddamn tonsillectomy, but he managed to graduate med school a year early. Much too early, if you ask me. Takes another sip to drown out the disappointment.
Once again, they find themselves in the same taxi. They’ve played the game before and when Christian pays the driver, it’s in exact change. They take the crowded elevator up, filled to the brim with nervous teenagers and their inexperienced, but obligated prom dates.
Finally, they’ve reached his room and the door locks with a satisfying click of the handle. He still tastes like whiskey (like before) and his hands press into her skin with experience, revisiting old places. She takes control, pulls him down, fumbles with frustration when the buttons of his shirt become blurred and impossible to undo.
She’s crying now, but only because she’s tired with jetlag and only fucking Christian Shephard because he’s that extra dose of reality she needs, because she needs someone to feel sorry for her, just for fucking once. Before long, he’s positioned himself between her legs and established a calm, punctuated rhythm and it takes forever for her to finally come.
The rising sun accompanies the aching regret in the pit of her stomach.
We know that you’re a spinal surgeon based out of St. Sebastian’s Hospital in Los Angeles.
(fixing things runs in the family, I see)
I know that you went to Columbia and graduated med school a year faster than everyone else.
(and I can still taste your father’s disappointment, Jack)
I know that you were married only once and that you contested the divorce.
(he always said you just couldn’t let things go)
I know your father died in Sydney. I know this because I have a copy of his autopsy report.
(it says the alcohol’s what did it, but I know better, Jack, we both know better)
She signs the divorce papers the second they come her way. Takes off the ring that’s strangled her for years. Freedom is a taste she enjoys, a taste that’s sweet and pure and liberating.
I heard about you and Edmund, he states. Tragic.
He’s drunk, she can hear it in his tone. It’s late Friday afternoon, tie’s probably undone and he’s sitting in the darkness of his locked office, barring himself off from his friends and family and the son he’s too afraid to commend.
I’m sure his new screw is nothing like you. What’s she look like? I bet she’s a redhead. Probably called Christine, Charlotte, or Caroline. Those always seem to be the type to royally fuck things up. He laughs. I would know.
Don’t call me again. Ever.
Hangs up.
He calls numerous times and she never answers. Soon, he gives up. Figures she’s moved on or moved away. He keeps the illusion of her alive by fucking blue-eyed nurses and calling his blonde daughter-in-law, paying her visits when Jack’s not around.
He admits to himself that his son did one hell of a job picking this one out.
He shoves in enough coins to cover a week’s worth of psychic readings. Fumbles with the numbers. Finally remembers the correct sequence. Four years and he can still remember, a string of numbers that temporarily liberated him from his shitty existence on this earth.
Dialing. Connecting. Ringing.
Juliet, he slurs into the mouthpiece, but in response he gets an automated message. We’re sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is unavailable right now. Please try your call again. Thank you.
He slams the phone back onto the receiver. Fuck you, he bangs his fists against the windows of the phone booth and stumbles out, taking another long swig out of the vodka bottle in his left hand.
Heart jumps. Once. Twice. Again and again. He knows this game like the back of his hand, this monster clawing beneath his ribcage. Medication’s back at the hotel. Hasn’t taken any since he got to Sydney. Clutches his chest. Slides down against the brick wall of the alleyway, slumping against metal trashcans.
Heart gets slower. And slower. Stops.
Juliet.
He dies with her name on his lips.
It’s funny how things work out.
Author: cloudytea
Characters/Parings: Juliet/Christian
Rating: R
Summary: It's funny how things work out.
She is blonde and beautiful and blue-eyed and the last thing he expects out of her is an impressive résumé to rival many of his own top researchers.
Juliet Burke, she holds her hand out and he takes it, noting her strong grip and an intensity in her eyes that easily outweighs that of his other female colleagues. He’s got a son about her age, but Christ, it wouldn’t be the first time he let his eyes wander over such youthful territory.
The Chief Surgeon of St. Sebastian’s buys the respectable researcher a drink, Dr. Shephard admires her groundbreaking papers (and long, slender legs), Christian slurs his words and flirtatiously mentions the name of the hotel he’s staying in.
They arrive there in ten minutes and he tips the taxi driver quite generously.
When the whiskey wears off the next morning, he knows this is just a one-time thing. He goes home to Los Angeles, thinking it as an occasional speed bump in his otherwise straight-laced life. Juliet goes back to her broken marriage and sleeps in a bed her husband also shares with research assistants and secretaries.
All’s as it should be -- outward appearances casually gloss over painful flaws, all-too-real to be ignored. But they are. Just as they have always been.
Her marriage to Edmund is on its last leg when she attends the annual conference in St. Louis.
She’s on stage presenting her latest findings (edmund‘s fucking his latest prodigy right now, she thinks to herself) and catches the bright blue eyes of her former conquest, taking notes like any other attendee.
Vengeance has a name and its name is Christian Shephard.
They meet for dinner and conversation never leaves the professional front.
My son’s just completed his residency, he mentions casually and takes a sip of red wine. Kid can’t handle a goddamn tonsillectomy, but he managed to graduate med school a year early. Much too early, if you ask me. Takes another sip to drown out the disappointment.
Once again, they find themselves in the same taxi. They’ve played the game before and when Christian pays the driver, it’s in exact change. They take the crowded elevator up, filled to the brim with nervous teenagers and their inexperienced, but obligated prom dates.
Finally, they’ve reached his room and the door locks with a satisfying click of the handle. He still tastes like whiskey (like before) and his hands press into her skin with experience, revisiting old places. She takes control, pulls him down, fumbles with frustration when the buttons of his shirt become blurred and impossible to undo.
She’s crying now, but only because she’s tired with jetlag and only fucking Christian Shephard because he’s that extra dose of reality she needs, because she needs someone to feel sorry for her, just for fucking once. Before long, he’s positioned himself between her legs and established a calm, punctuated rhythm and it takes forever for her to finally come.
The rising sun accompanies the aching regret in the pit of her stomach.
We know that you’re a spinal surgeon based out of St. Sebastian’s Hospital in Los Angeles.
(fixing things runs in the family, I see)
I know that you went to Columbia and graduated med school a year faster than everyone else.
(and I can still taste your father’s disappointment, Jack)
I know that you were married only once and that you contested the divorce.
(he always said you just couldn’t let things go)
I know your father died in Sydney. I know this because I have a copy of his autopsy report.
(it says the alcohol’s what did it, but I know better, Jack, we both know better)
She signs the divorce papers the second they come her way. Takes off the ring that’s strangled her for years. Freedom is a taste she enjoys, a taste that’s sweet and pure and liberating.
I heard about you and Edmund, he states. Tragic.
He’s drunk, she can hear it in his tone. It’s late Friday afternoon, tie’s probably undone and he’s sitting in the darkness of his locked office, barring himself off from his friends and family and the son he’s too afraid to commend.
I’m sure his new screw is nothing like you. What’s she look like? I bet she’s a redhead. Probably called Christine, Charlotte, or Caroline. Those always seem to be the type to royally fuck things up. He laughs. I would know.
Don’t call me again. Ever.
Hangs up.
He calls numerous times and she never answers. Soon, he gives up. Figures she’s moved on or moved away. He keeps the illusion of her alive by fucking blue-eyed nurses and calling his blonde daughter-in-law, paying her visits when Jack’s not around.
He admits to himself that his son did one hell of a job picking this one out.
He shoves in enough coins to cover a week’s worth of psychic readings. Fumbles with the numbers. Finally remembers the correct sequence. Four years and he can still remember, a string of numbers that temporarily liberated him from his shitty existence on this earth.
Dialing. Connecting. Ringing.
Juliet, he slurs into the mouthpiece, but in response he gets an automated message. We’re sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is unavailable right now. Please try your call again. Thank you.
He slams the phone back onto the receiver. Fuck you, he bangs his fists against the windows of the phone booth and stumbles out, taking another long swig out of the vodka bottle in his left hand.
Heart jumps. Once. Twice. Again and again. He knows this game like the back of his hand, this monster clawing beneath his ribcage. Medication’s back at the hotel. Hasn’t taken any since he got to Sydney. Clutches his chest. Slides down against the brick wall of the alleyway, slumping against metal trashcans.
Heart gets slower. And slower. Stops.
Juliet.
He dies with her name on his lips.
It’s funny how things work out.