Fic: Embarkation (1/1)
Title: Embarkation
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Claire Littleton, Juliet Burke; mild Claire/Juliet
Word Count: 747
Summary: She remembers less and less as time passes by, unchecked. For tellshannon815, who requested “Juliet, something where she remained in her own time instead of moving with everyone else after Ben turned the wheel.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I have no idea where this came from, or how it ended up being vaguely Claire/Juliet-ish -- I just hope you don’t hate it.
Embarkation
The world lights up, and she can’t see, even after the screeching fades.
The first thing that pulls into focus is the smoke in the air where there is no wreckage; where there is no fire or flame.
She blinks, swallows, and tips the rest of the bottle up to sear down her throat.
____________________________
She can’t find anyone.
It doesn’t make any sense, but everywhere she turns feels like a ghost town, every path she takes seems decrepit, unkempt, and there’s something thick on the breeze, something harsh in her lungs, her nostrils when she tries to steady herself, tries to calm.
There are whispers, everywhere, but never footsteps.
____________________________
She counts the days, carves them with rocks into wood, into the bark of the stick she carries, sharpened to a point after enough sleepless nights, enough times where its her fingernails digging out the time that passes, a testament to her existence in this time and place.
She doesn’t stop to think about how little any of it matters.
She counts the days until she sticks a boar through the belly with her splintered, pock-marked spear, until the ruts stain red where the layers are worn down.
____________________________
When the eyes find her, the first thing she thinks is that she’s truly lost her mind.
There’s a smile, though, a smile that looks like she feels -- brittle and not quite real, more like a memory.
The hand is rough, but in her mind it feels soft when it reaches out, and she tries to quirk the corners of her lips in something like gratitude, like sympathy when the woman stands, pulls her none-too-gently to her feet and leads her, tugs her behind, sticks and dead leaves, fragments caught in the scraggle of her bangs.
____________________________
Time passes; she never tries to count it again.
They live in a place that she forgets, perhaps never knew. They stay beneath tarps and tents, old shirts from people she’d met once, loved once -- pieces of a wreckage neither of them quite recall, because time doesn’t heal anything, just washes it away until the dreams sweep in and take the recollections, twist them into transience and dust.
There’s a baby in a cradle, the wood rotting against the skull, and sometimes she leaves a slice of a mango aside before she realizes, before she forgets.
It happens more, these days; she remembers less.
Her hair grows long, tangles; Claire braids it by the fire at night, never ties it off, and she wakes at sunrise with it looped like a halo, wrapped like a noose around her, soft, comforting.
Time passes.
____________________________
Claire sees him first, sees him walking in bloodstained khaki, and her breath catches.
My brother, she whispers, like it’s a buried truth she used to know, had forgotten until the very moment she lays eyes upon him through the trees.
Juliet closes her eyes, tries to remember what it felt like before, what thoughts and useless things she may have felt and known -- she listens for the beat of her heart to change to a trill, like it might have, maybe, but it fails her, doesn’t let her down.
It’s steady.
She cocks her rifle and narrows her gaze.
____________________________
The questions don’t exist, anymore -- she doesn’t remember even asking them. When Claire’s eyes had found hers, hesitant; when Jack’s had watched her, pitying, she gripped only steel, tasted only salt, and when she bit her lip and walked away, her finger itching on the trigger, she’d known.
There would never be any going back. She doesn’t even remember what might be waiting for her if she tried.
Claire’s hand finds hers in the dark, and she clasps it without a second thought, feels the rush of blood at the wrist; clings harder, digs her fingers into the skin and snaps through the surface, lets dried flesh and drops of blood gather under her nails like a promise -- tries to tell her things that words won’t help, can’t say.
They breathe, and it doesn’t match, doesn’t sync; nothing here fits, and maybe that’s what makes it real, makes it right. Makes it home.
She reaches her free hand to grasp at the edge of the crib, sighs deep and lets her eyes slide shut.
When the war finds them, they’ll win their own fucking battles, fight for their own losing side.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Claire Littleton, Juliet Burke; mild Claire/Juliet
Word Count: 747
Summary: She remembers less and less as time passes by, unchecked. For tellshannon815, who requested “Juliet, something where she remained in her own time instead of moving with everyone else after Ben turned the wheel.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I have no idea where this came from, or how it ended up being vaguely Claire/Juliet-ish -- I just hope you don’t hate it.
Embarkation
The world lights up, and she can’t see, even after the screeching fades.
The first thing that pulls into focus is the smoke in the air where there is no wreckage; where there is no fire or flame.
She blinks, swallows, and tips the rest of the bottle up to sear down her throat.
____________________________
She can’t find anyone.
It doesn’t make any sense, but everywhere she turns feels like a ghost town, every path she takes seems decrepit, unkempt, and there’s something thick on the breeze, something harsh in her lungs, her nostrils when she tries to steady herself, tries to calm.
There are whispers, everywhere, but never footsteps.
____________________________
She counts the days, carves them with rocks into wood, into the bark of the stick she carries, sharpened to a point after enough sleepless nights, enough times where its her fingernails digging out the time that passes, a testament to her existence in this time and place.
She doesn’t stop to think about how little any of it matters.
She counts the days until she sticks a boar through the belly with her splintered, pock-marked spear, until the ruts stain red where the layers are worn down.
____________________________
When the eyes find her, the first thing she thinks is that she’s truly lost her mind.
There’s a smile, though, a smile that looks like she feels -- brittle and not quite real, more like a memory.
The hand is rough, but in her mind it feels soft when it reaches out, and she tries to quirk the corners of her lips in something like gratitude, like sympathy when the woman stands, pulls her none-too-gently to her feet and leads her, tugs her behind, sticks and dead leaves, fragments caught in the scraggle of her bangs.
____________________________
Time passes; she never tries to count it again.
They live in a place that she forgets, perhaps never knew. They stay beneath tarps and tents, old shirts from people she’d met once, loved once -- pieces of a wreckage neither of them quite recall, because time doesn’t heal anything, just washes it away until the dreams sweep in and take the recollections, twist them into transience and dust.
There’s a baby in a cradle, the wood rotting against the skull, and sometimes she leaves a slice of a mango aside before she realizes, before she forgets.
It happens more, these days; she remembers less.
Her hair grows long, tangles; Claire braids it by the fire at night, never ties it off, and she wakes at sunrise with it looped like a halo, wrapped like a noose around her, soft, comforting.
Time passes.
____________________________
Claire sees him first, sees him walking in bloodstained khaki, and her breath catches.
My brother, she whispers, like it’s a buried truth she used to know, had forgotten until the very moment she lays eyes upon him through the trees.
Juliet closes her eyes, tries to remember what it felt like before, what thoughts and useless things she may have felt and known -- she listens for the beat of her heart to change to a trill, like it might have, maybe, but it fails her, doesn’t let her down.
It’s steady.
She cocks her rifle and narrows her gaze.
____________________________
The questions don’t exist, anymore -- she doesn’t remember even asking them. When Claire’s eyes had found hers, hesitant; when Jack’s had watched her, pitying, she gripped only steel, tasted only salt, and when she bit her lip and walked away, her finger itching on the trigger, she’d known.
There would never be any going back. She doesn’t even remember what might be waiting for her if she tried.
Claire’s hand finds hers in the dark, and she clasps it without a second thought, feels the rush of blood at the wrist; clings harder, digs her fingers into the skin and snaps through the surface, lets dried flesh and drops of blood gather under her nails like a promise -- tries to tell her things that words won’t help, can’t say.
They breathe, and it doesn’t match, doesn’t sync; nothing here fits, and maybe that’s what makes it real, makes it right. Makes it home.
She reaches her free hand to grasp at the edge of the crib, sighs deep and lets her eyes slide shut.
When the war finds them, they’ll win their own fucking battles, fight for their own losing side.