Lost: Fire Trails
Title: Fire Trails
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Juliet Burke (Juliet/Sawyer)
Rating: PG
Words: 1,212
Summary: She can pretend that she's okay as much as she wants, but her subconscious isn't fooled. (And neither is James.)
Notes: Hooray, I finally got a fic done for my 10tropes list! This is for the trope Not So Stoic. Title from Cinders by Sarah Blasko, and thanks to the always amazing ozqueen for the beta!
Fire Trails
She wakes up sick and dizzy, hands shaking.
It's back.
She was always prone to nightmares as a kid, but she grew out of it. Mostly. Until she came here. Every now and then, out of nowhere, her subconscious treats her to a few nights in a row of mismatched memories and fears. The last time it happened was months and months ago, around the time the plane crashed.
A lot of things have happened to her since then. A lot of bad, bad things. Life-threatening things. Too many people have died, too many times she's been so terrified that she can barely understand how she's made it out alive. The thought of going back to sleep nearly sends her into a full-scale panic, and she spends the rest of the night quietly pacing the hallway, listening to the tacky cuckoo-clock tick away the seconds.
-
The next two nights pass exactly the same way, and she considers herself lucky if she snags three hours of sleep. There's a plus side to this: sunrises here are rich enough to burn through the fog behind her eyes, and they wake up the bit of her that still appreciates beauty. Black to indigo to a mess of yellows and pinks and blinding whites. It's nice. More than anything else, it's a relief to get the night behind her. Thing is, once orange becomes red becomes bright damn blue she has to force herself out the front door and somehow be useful at the motor pool. She's used to working under high pressure on little sleep, so she more-or-less does okay. She hasn't killed anyone yet, so at least it's an improvement on her last job.
She doesn't really like the taste of coffee, but by lunchtime Wednesday she's lost track of how much she's had.
"You look terrible."
Great. Thanks, James. He deserves some sort of withering glare for that, but she just can't force herself to bother. The best she can do is a deadpan, "You know, I'll never understand how you got all those women to sleep with you."
"Sure you will. The charm comes and goes, you'll know it when you see it."
She closes her eyes. Not today. She couldn't be any less in the mood for his stupid meaningless-playful-flirting game.
"You okay?"
No.
"I'm fine."
A few hours later she wonders if she should stop saying that. I'm fine. When was the last time she actually meant it?
-
In sophomore year of college, she dated some guy from her bio class. He broke it off after a couple of weeks, which was completely okay with her. He was kind of a jerk. Mostly, she only went out with him so Rachel would get off her back about being more outgoing. You're in college! Live a little! But afterwards, everyone weirdly expected her to be utterly heartbroken. Over and over again, people asked if she was okay.
Maybe that was the last time.
-
By Thursday night, it's over. She indulges in a few minutes of relief in the morning before trying to put the whole thing behind her. She loses herself in Dharma's rigid structure, working double shifts for a week and a half. She hasn't caught up on sleep and spends half the days yawning, but she keeps going. She keeps going because, really, what choice is there? She is where she is, what happened to her happened to her, and there's nothing she can do to change it.
It's over. That's good enough.
*******
Five months go by, and then it happens again.
A lot can change in that time. Like, you might become a tiny bit more comfortable in the bizarre alternate-universe your life has become. Or you might develop a liking for Dharma Initiative chocolate mousse. Or you might somehow move from sleeping curled-up and alone to sleeping with one leg hooked around James' waist. You know, just for example. But this sort of sleeping arrangement doesn't quite lend itself to vivid nightmare phases. When all you can hear is I WANT YOU TO TELL ME EVERYTHING OR I'LL CUT OFF HER OTHER HAND and you're being yanked to the ground, twigs and bones snapping, dirt in your mouth and sweat in your eyes ("Juliet!") and shrieks and shouts and screams and THE FIRST ONE ISN'T NEGOTIABLE ("Juliet, wake up!") IT'S JUST TO ILLUSTRATE HOW SERIOUS I AM-
"Hey."
It takes a second or two to orientate herself. Bed. Sheets. Ceiling.
"You alright?"
It's too warm for it, but she pulls the blanket up to her chin.
"I'm fine. Just dreaming."
"Pretty intense dream."
She rolls onto her side. "It's nothing."
The bed creaks.
"...You sure?"
She doesn't answer. She lets him think she's fallen back to sleep.
She can't tell if he's fallen for it or just taken the hint. Either way, he leaves her alone. Good. His breathing gets deeper and deeper, while she stares at a spot on the wall. Wide, wide, wide awake.
-
Wide awake. Arms in an odd position to keep herself uncomfortable.
-
Still awake.
-
The next night, she takes no risks. No way in hell is she falling asleep. Truth be told, she's a little irritated with herself for not anticipating this sooner, back when she first began sharing a bed with James. (The honest part of her wonders what she could ever have done to prevent it. The rest of her is too frustrated to care.) (Also, too tired. She's running on caffeine and adrenaline again.)
As soon as she's beyond the slightest doubt that he's asleep, she moves. She gently untangles herself from his sheets and his hands, slowly, carefully. He's a light sleeper and it's delicate work. (Well, she thinks. At least this is eating up some time. She's got a long night ahead of her.) After inching her way out the door and down the hall, successfully navigating the worst of the floorboards, she settles herself on the couch with a blanket and a book. Something trashy and addictive, something that'll keep her up all night.
Every noise sends her glancing over her shoulder. If James wakes up, he'll ask questions, and she can't. She just can't. Her brain is useless right now, an unsettling mix of frayed edges and an unnatural buzz. Questions are the last thing she needs.
-
Except, when she sees him next morning, he runs headlong into interrogation mode.
"Why'd you sleep on the couch last night?"
Zero to a hundred in less than two seconds. No preamble. Not even a good morning. And how the hell does he know?
"I didn't."
"Liar."
She bites her tongue. That's a bit rich coming from Mr I-Lie-For-A-Living. It's not even technically a lie; she didn't actually go sleep last night. She wants to snap at him. This is stupid. He can't say things like that. Accusations of lying just sound wrong coming from him. He just... she hates everything today. Everything.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She spits out her answer before he's even finished the question. Not exactly convincing. She blinks fast, faster, and faster, because she will not cry in front of him. She won't.
"Juliet."
If she starts to cry, she won't stop.
Crying is not an option.
She's so tired.
"Seriously. You okay?"
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Juliet Burke (Juliet/Sawyer)
Rating: PG
Words: 1,212
Summary: She can pretend that she's okay as much as she wants, but her subconscious isn't fooled. (And neither is James.)
Notes: Hooray, I finally got a fic done for my 10tropes list! This is for the trope Not So Stoic. Title from Cinders by Sarah Blasko, and thanks to the always amazing ozqueen for the beta!
Fire Trails
She wakes up sick and dizzy, hands shaking.
It's back.
She was always prone to nightmares as a kid, but she grew out of it. Mostly. Until she came here. Every now and then, out of nowhere, her subconscious treats her to a few nights in a row of mismatched memories and fears. The last time it happened was months and months ago, around the time the plane crashed.
A lot of things have happened to her since then. A lot of bad, bad things. Life-threatening things. Too many people have died, too many times she's been so terrified that she can barely understand how she's made it out alive. The thought of going back to sleep nearly sends her into a full-scale panic, and she spends the rest of the night quietly pacing the hallway, listening to the tacky cuckoo-clock tick away the seconds.
-
The next two nights pass exactly the same way, and she considers herself lucky if she snags three hours of sleep. There's a plus side to this: sunrises here are rich enough to burn through the fog behind her eyes, and they wake up the bit of her that still appreciates beauty. Black to indigo to a mess of yellows and pinks and blinding whites. It's nice. More than anything else, it's a relief to get the night behind her. Thing is, once orange becomes red becomes bright damn blue she has to force herself out the front door and somehow be useful at the motor pool. She's used to working under high pressure on little sleep, so she more-or-less does okay. She hasn't killed anyone yet, so at least it's an improvement on her last job.
She doesn't really like the taste of coffee, but by lunchtime Wednesday she's lost track of how much she's had.
"You look terrible."
Great. Thanks, James. He deserves some sort of withering glare for that, but she just can't force herself to bother. The best she can do is a deadpan, "You know, I'll never understand how you got all those women to sleep with you."
"Sure you will. The charm comes and goes, you'll know it when you see it."
She closes her eyes. Not today. She couldn't be any less in the mood for his stupid meaningless-playful-flirting game.
"You okay?"
No.
"I'm fine."
A few hours later she wonders if she should stop saying that. I'm fine. When was the last time she actually meant it?
-
In sophomore year of college, she dated some guy from her bio class. He broke it off after a couple of weeks, which was completely okay with her. He was kind of a jerk. Mostly, she only went out with him so Rachel would get off her back about being more outgoing. You're in college! Live a little! But afterwards, everyone weirdly expected her to be utterly heartbroken. Over and over again, people asked if she was okay.
Maybe that was the last time.
-
By Thursday night, it's over. She indulges in a few minutes of relief in the morning before trying to put the whole thing behind her. She loses herself in Dharma's rigid structure, working double shifts for a week and a half. She hasn't caught up on sleep and spends half the days yawning, but she keeps going. She keeps going because, really, what choice is there? She is where she is, what happened to her happened to her, and there's nothing she can do to change it.
It's over. That's good enough.
*******
Five months go by, and then it happens again.
A lot can change in that time. Like, you might become a tiny bit more comfortable in the bizarre alternate-universe your life has become. Or you might develop a liking for Dharma Initiative chocolate mousse. Or you might somehow move from sleeping curled-up and alone to sleeping with one leg hooked around James' waist. You know, just for example. But this sort of sleeping arrangement doesn't quite lend itself to vivid nightmare phases. When all you can hear is I WANT YOU TO TELL ME EVERYTHING OR I'LL CUT OFF HER OTHER HAND and you're being yanked to the ground, twigs and bones snapping, dirt in your mouth and sweat in your eyes ("Juliet!") and shrieks and shouts and screams and THE FIRST ONE ISN'T NEGOTIABLE ("Juliet, wake up!") IT'S JUST TO ILLUSTRATE HOW SERIOUS I AM-
"Hey."
It takes a second or two to orientate herself. Bed. Sheets. Ceiling.
"You alright?"
It's too warm for it, but she pulls the blanket up to her chin.
"I'm fine. Just dreaming."
"Pretty intense dream."
She rolls onto her side. "It's nothing."
The bed creaks.
"...You sure?"
She doesn't answer. She lets him think she's fallen back to sleep.
She can't tell if he's fallen for it or just taken the hint. Either way, he leaves her alone. Good. His breathing gets deeper and deeper, while she stares at a spot on the wall. Wide, wide, wide awake.
-
Wide awake. Arms in an odd position to keep herself uncomfortable.
-
Still awake.
-
The next night, she takes no risks. No way in hell is she falling asleep. Truth be told, she's a little irritated with herself for not anticipating this sooner, back when she first began sharing a bed with James. (The honest part of her wonders what she could ever have done to prevent it. The rest of her is too frustrated to care.) (Also, too tired. She's running on caffeine and adrenaline again.)
As soon as she's beyond the slightest doubt that he's asleep, she moves. She gently untangles herself from his sheets and his hands, slowly, carefully. He's a light sleeper and it's delicate work. (Well, she thinks. At least this is eating up some time. She's got a long night ahead of her.) After inching her way out the door and down the hall, successfully navigating the worst of the floorboards, she settles herself on the couch with a blanket and a book. Something trashy and addictive, something that'll keep her up all night.
Every noise sends her glancing over her shoulder. If James wakes up, he'll ask questions, and she can't. She just can't. Her brain is useless right now, an unsettling mix of frayed edges and an unnatural buzz. Questions are the last thing she needs.
-
Except, when she sees him next morning, he runs headlong into interrogation mode.
"Why'd you sleep on the couch last night?"
Zero to a hundred in less than two seconds. No preamble. Not even a good morning. And how the hell does he know?
"I didn't."
"Liar."
She bites her tongue. That's a bit rich coming from Mr I-Lie-For-A-Living. It's not even technically a lie; she didn't actually go sleep last night. She wants to snap at him. This is stupid. He can't say things like that. Accusations of lying just sound wrong coming from him. He just... she hates everything today. Everything.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She spits out her answer before he's even finished the question. Not exactly convincing. She blinks fast, faster, and faster, because she will not cry in front of him. She won't.
"Juliet."
If she starts to cry, she won't stop.
Crying is not an option.
She's so tired.
"Seriously. You okay?"