Fic: Wash Our Souls Up On The Shore (1/1)
Title: Wash Our Souls Up On The Shore
Rating: R
Pairing: Claire/Jacob
Word Count: 1,181
Summary: She dreams of terrible, beautiful, terrible things. For flaky_artist, who requested “ Claire/Jacob” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This pairing is lovely; thank you so much for prompting it! I hope you enjoy this bit of them.
Wash Our Souls Up On The Shore
She sighs around the splash of the sea, the rush of the wind from the top of the cliff as she looks over, dances on the edge and forgets to understand the concept of falling; thinks of flying, instead.
Come back, sweetheart, the voice behind her coaxes, and she giggles, doesn’t look back; dips a foot against boundless, weightless night, nothing to hold her, and she relishes the gasp that takes the atmosphere and twists it, holds it hostages as she stands, suspended, prays for wings and time.
She plummets, and the sand looks grey in the moonlight, and the foam on the water looks downy-soft, angel feathers from others like her, lost and broken, their wings floating on the surf.
She breathes, one more time.
--------------------------
She wakes, panting, and he’s there; of course he’s there.
Breathe, he tells her, and so she does, if only because he asks; he sets her rhythm, draws her hands into his and grips tightly between them, strokes the side of her neck with his thumb until the beat of her pulse doesn’t push against it so hard, until she’s human again and she can look at him without fear in her eyes, without the confusion that plagues her dreams, haunts the moments where he isn’t close.
He slides in behind her, under the blankets, and he forms his naked skin to her own, lets his body shield her, slow and steady as sounds stir outside the cabin walls -- she shivers, and he presses closer, and she can smell smoke, two kinds: from the fire, and from beyond, and she hasn’t seen her Friend in weeks, not since she came here, not since she found this, and Aaron is a rodent skull in a rotting cradle, now, and she cries when she hears a storm at the door, when she thinks of anything beyond the warmth and the touch of the now.
He lifts a hand between her breasts and presses firm against the throb of her heart; she can never find his pulse, even when she kisses down the length of his chest, even when she falls asleep against hum, but the cadence lulls her, from wherever it comes, and she slips slowly back into sleep.
--------------------------
He runs his fingers through her hair when they sit on the shore, slowly separating the tangles until it’s soft and clean, flows in the like puffs of air that waft from the ocean. She leans into him, his touch -- he’s careful, quiet, sure, and his hands are warm, and she almost think they love her, those hands.
She almost thinks they love her.
He’ll wrap her close around her waist as she sinks into the give of his chest, and she’ll whisper, wonder, and he’ll never answer her questions except to kiss her neck and tongue the line of her jaw.
It’s alright, though; she doesn’t need to know.
--------------------------
He tells her to follow; she does.
He walks slowly through the jungle, holds low-hanging branches for her and smiles softly when she flushes from more than the heat. Sometimes, he’ll stop, let her bump into him, aimless, before he pulls her in and kisses the flutter of her heart, just at the back of her ear. She’ll shiver, and blush, and he’ll trail a hand to the small of her back as they keep walking; walking.
He stops them at an outcropping of rock she’s never seen, and the air feels stale there, old -- there’s something rank on the breeze and he squeezes her hand before her nose can scrunch, before she can protest. He ducks under the sharp, jagged stone, and she follows suit.
It takes a moment to adjust to the dark, and she feels everything in her grow tense, short, too stiff to move and bend and give: she sees the outline of a form, asleep -- still. More than asleep, framed by tattered bones.
She gasps, hand over mouth and heart as she cracks and falls blind to her knees: he follows her, says nothing.
She knows that face.
--------------------------
She wakes, and he’s there; of course he’s there.
Bad dream? he asks, groggy, as if he sleeps, as if his eyes aren’t on her every moment, as if he can ever stop keeping watch.
She hums a reply that means nothing, and she knows that he knows as much; they don’t speak, wait for sunrise.
--------------------------
She walks the shore ahead of him, feels his gaze like a noose or a jacket, a wooly throw, and she runs her hands through the surf -- downy-soft.
She looks up, and there are no cliffs here, and she can’t taste blood on her tongue, and her stomach plummets with a sense memory she doesn’t think she’s ever known.
--------------------------
There’s a dagger that her Friend gave her, asked her to keep it safe. He told her it could do the impossible.
She still doesn’t understand, but she’s getting there.
The fire flickers, glimmers, and she runs the blade over the length of her palm, presses hard until the blood draws shadows of its own free will, and she smiles at it, sleeps with its pictures under her pillow, and when she wakes, he’s tonguing the wounds, sealing them with his lips, and she almost thinks she feels tears, but they could be her own.
Probably her own.
--------------------------
She finds the cliff.
She stands by it, when he lets her be -- she can feel him, but never see him in these moments, and it’s okay, because she doesn’t need any more than just that.
She sucks in air, and her lungs are too small, her breath is too big, and nothing fits or makes sense. She remembers things in fits and bursts -- she’s a mother, she’s a daughter, she’s a sister, she’s a friend -- never for long, and never all at once, and in pieces it’s not enough to matter.
Here, though, it starts to coalesce.
There are tears in her eyes when she looks down, now, and there’s no one to tell her to stop, to breathe, to think and hope and try, goddamnit, there’s no one.
No one.
Her legs give out, and her chest feels light, and there’s something inside of her that gives in as blackness comes, and she almost feels happy for the first time in years -- longer, she suspects -- when she doesn’t see anything coming for her as the dark takes hold, when she doesn’t know where she’s going.
It’s not the best way to end, she thinks, but it’s a way, and that’s enough.
--------------------------
Her eyes open, and she feels reborn. She doesn’t remember how she got here.
Bad dream? he whispers softly, voice flat and sad, and she sobs, she sobs against him; he doesn’t hold her, but he stays and lets her cry.
Rating: R
Pairing: Claire/Jacob
Word Count: 1,181
Summary: She dreams of terrible, beautiful, terrible things. For flaky_artist, who requested “ Claire/Jacob” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This pairing is lovely; thank you so much for prompting it! I hope you enjoy this bit of them.
Wash Our Souls Up On The Shore
She sighs around the splash of the sea, the rush of the wind from the top of the cliff as she looks over, dances on the edge and forgets to understand the concept of falling; thinks of flying, instead.
Come back, sweetheart, the voice behind her coaxes, and she giggles, doesn’t look back; dips a foot against boundless, weightless night, nothing to hold her, and she relishes the gasp that takes the atmosphere and twists it, holds it hostages as she stands, suspended, prays for wings and time.
She plummets, and the sand looks grey in the moonlight, and the foam on the water looks downy-soft, angel feathers from others like her, lost and broken, their wings floating on the surf.
She breathes, one more time.
--------------------------
She wakes, panting, and he’s there; of course he’s there.
Breathe, he tells her, and so she does, if only because he asks; he sets her rhythm, draws her hands into his and grips tightly between them, strokes the side of her neck with his thumb until the beat of her pulse doesn’t push against it so hard, until she’s human again and she can look at him without fear in her eyes, without the confusion that plagues her dreams, haunts the moments where he isn’t close.
He slides in behind her, under the blankets, and he forms his naked skin to her own, lets his body shield her, slow and steady as sounds stir outside the cabin walls -- she shivers, and he presses closer, and she can smell smoke, two kinds: from the fire, and from beyond, and she hasn’t seen her Friend in weeks, not since she came here, not since she found this, and Aaron is a rodent skull in a rotting cradle, now, and she cries when she hears a storm at the door, when she thinks of anything beyond the warmth and the touch of the now.
He lifts a hand between her breasts and presses firm against the throb of her heart; she can never find his pulse, even when she kisses down the length of his chest, even when she falls asleep against hum, but the cadence lulls her, from wherever it comes, and she slips slowly back into sleep.
--------------------------
He runs his fingers through her hair when they sit on the shore, slowly separating the tangles until it’s soft and clean, flows in the like puffs of air that waft from the ocean. She leans into him, his touch -- he’s careful, quiet, sure, and his hands are warm, and she almost think they love her, those hands.
She almost thinks they love her.
He’ll wrap her close around her waist as she sinks into the give of his chest, and she’ll whisper, wonder, and he’ll never answer her questions except to kiss her neck and tongue the line of her jaw.
It’s alright, though; she doesn’t need to know.
--------------------------
He tells her to follow; she does.
He walks slowly through the jungle, holds low-hanging branches for her and smiles softly when she flushes from more than the heat. Sometimes, he’ll stop, let her bump into him, aimless, before he pulls her in and kisses the flutter of her heart, just at the back of her ear. She’ll shiver, and blush, and he’ll trail a hand to the small of her back as they keep walking; walking.
He stops them at an outcropping of rock she’s never seen, and the air feels stale there, old -- there’s something rank on the breeze and he squeezes her hand before her nose can scrunch, before she can protest. He ducks under the sharp, jagged stone, and she follows suit.
It takes a moment to adjust to the dark, and she feels everything in her grow tense, short, too stiff to move and bend and give: she sees the outline of a form, asleep -- still. More than asleep, framed by tattered bones.
She gasps, hand over mouth and heart as she cracks and falls blind to her knees: he follows her, says nothing.
She knows that face.
--------------------------
She wakes, and he’s there; of course he’s there.
Bad dream? he asks, groggy, as if he sleeps, as if his eyes aren’t on her every moment, as if he can ever stop keeping watch.
She hums a reply that means nothing, and she knows that he knows as much; they don’t speak, wait for sunrise.
--------------------------
She walks the shore ahead of him, feels his gaze like a noose or a jacket, a wooly throw, and she runs her hands through the surf -- downy-soft.
She looks up, and there are no cliffs here, and she can’t taste blood on her tongue, and her stomach plummets with a sense memory she doesn’t think she’s ever known.
--------------------------
There’s a dagger that her Friend gave her, asked her to keep it safe. He told her it could do the impossible.
She still doesn’t understand, but she’s getting there.
The fire flickers, glimmers, and she runs the blade over the length of her palm, presses hard until the blood draws shadows of its own free will, and she smiles at it, sleeps with its pictures under her pillow, and when she wakes, he’s tonguing the wounds, sealing them with his lips, and she almost thinks she feels tears, but they could be her own.
Probably her own.
--------------------------
She finds the cliff.
She stands by it, when he lets her be -- she can feel him, but never see him in these moments, and it’s okay, because she doesn’t need any more than just that.
She sucks in air, and her lungs are too small, her breath is too big, and nothing fits or makes sense. She remembers things in fits and bursts -- she’s a mother, she’s a daughter, she’s a sister, she’s a friend -- never for long, and never all at once, and in pieces it’s not enough to matter.
Here, though, it starts to coalesce.
There are tears in her eyes when she looks down, now, and there’s no one to tell her to stop, to breathe, to think and hope and try, goddamnit, there’s no one.
No one.
Her legs give out, and her chest feels light, and there’s something inside of her that gives in as blackness comes, and she almost feels happy for the first time in years -- longer, she suspects -- when she doesn’t see anything coming for her as the dark takes hold, when she doesn’t know where she’s going.
It’s not the best way to end, she thinks, but it’s a way, and that’s enough.
--------------------------
Her eyes open, and she feels reborn. She doesn’t remember how she got here.
Bad dream? he whispers softly, voice flat and sad, and she sobs, she sobs against him; he doesn’t hold her, but he stays and lets her cry.