[fic: lost]
an old soul in a new body
lost. shannon. Shannon was never any good at chess. ~600 | pg
Oh, Shannon thinks and tries to keep the tears of her mirth firmly inside her. They feel like they will burst, explode, and she will melt into a puddle of Shannon goo on the shabby floor of the motel.
Boone is looking at her like she’s crazy and she wants to shake him and demand that can’t he see? He’s the one that’s gone crazy.
“No,” she manages, though her tongue feels thick and heavy, weighed down in her mouth. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Shan, c’mon.” Boone says patiently. He reaches out very gently and closes a hand around her shoulder and they aren’t talking about the dull chain of purplish bruises that are forming around her wrists and around her shoulders-or the fact that they have the distinct imprint of fingertips.
Once, she remembers, a long time ago she had wondered what if things had been different. What if all those men had been abusive like she claimed? What if she really was one of those women who had jumped from asshole to creep to asshole again because she had believed she wasn’t worth anything more?
The irony weighs so heavy on her tongue it’s a wonder her jaw doesn’t snap.
“You know how worried Mom is-all she does is talk about you, worrying over you, begging me to bring you home,” Boone says and Shannon stubbornly thinks, Sabrina and she’s never really cared about me. She wasn’t supposed to. “Just come home with me and whatever you’re going through-we’ll work it out.”
She hates Boone, she hates him so much it’s impossible to think that she ever loved him. How could he? she wants to demand. How could he just close his eyes and play pretend after everything?
“Good one, Jacob,” she manages and has to swallow another healthy gulp of whisky to keep from dissolving into some pathetic mixture of tears and hysterical laughter.
“Jacob?” Boone repeats, frowning. “Is that his name? Jacob?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“Shannon, please.” This is before, Shannon has to remind herself. This is before. Before that night in the hotel. Before the plane. Before the island. Before the bullet, ripping through her gut. “Let me just take you home. Let me take you home.”
“You wouldn’t take me home, Boone,” she tells him softly and she can’t keep a thread of mocking laughter from her voice. “You’d just kill me.”
“Shannon.”
She closes her eyes, imagines it. For a fleeting moment she thinks Sayid-Sayid, and Islands, and the sweet scent of his skin on hers, and gods and black and white chess pieces moving across a wooden board-and then it’s gone because really, she can’t cling to something that has already let her go, and doesn’t even exist. Not anymore.
“No,” she says sternly. “No, I’m not going.” She’s not ready to play this game again, she thinks. More than that, she’s not willing. She’s not sure what Libby or Charlie or Eko are doing, and she’s sure as hell not sure what Boone is doing, but this is what she’s doing. And maybe that’s something-or maybe that’s nothing at all, maybe Jacob guessed as much. She didn’t know really.
She was never any good at chess, anyway.
Later, when Boone leaves in a heartbreakingly sad huff of confusion (and no, she adds, she won’t showing up at his hotel room tonight with a bottle of jack in one hand and Boone’s heart in the other) she sits down on the creaking motel bed and flips on the television to the news, and waits.
The crash never comes, and she guesses that means the joke’s on her. But then again, it always was.
lost. shannon. Shannon was never any good at chess. ~600 | pg
Oh, Shannon thinks and tries to keep the tears of her mirth firmly inside her. They feel like they will burst, explode, and she will melt into a puddle of Shannon goo on the shabby floor of the motel.
Boone is looking at her like she’s crazy and she wants to shake him and demand that can’t he see? He’s the one that’s gone crazy.
“No,” she manages, though her tongue feels thick and heavy, weighed down in her mouth. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Shan, c’mon.” Boone says patiently. He reaches out very gently and closes a hand around her shoulder and they aren’t talking about the dull chain of purplish bruises that are forming around her wrists and around her shoulders-or the fact that they have the distinct imprint of fingertips.
Once, she remembers, a long time ago she had wondered what if things had been different. What if all those men had been abusive like she claimed? What if she really was one of those women who had jumped from asshole to creep to asshole again because she had believed she wasn’t worth anything more?
The irony weighs so heavy on her tongue it’s a wonder her jaw doesn’t snap.
“You know how worried Mom is-all she does is talk about you, worrying over you, begging me to bring you home,” Boone says and Shannon stubbornly thinks, Sabrina and she’s never really cared about me. She wasn’t supposed to. “Just come home with me and whatever you’re going through-we’ll work it out.”
She hates Boone, she hates him so much it’s impossible to think that she ever loved him. How could he? she wants to demand. How could he just close his eyes and play pretend after everything?
“Good one, Jacob,” she manages and has to swallow another healthy gulp of whisky to keep from dissolving into some pathetic mixture of tears and hysterical laughter.
“Jacob?” Boone repeats, frowning. “Is that his name? Jacob?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“Shannon, please.” This is before, Shannon has to remind herself. This is before. Before that night in the hotel. Before the plane. Before the island. Before the bullet, ripping through her gut. “Let me just take you home. Let me take you home.”
“You wouldn’t take me home, Boone,” she tells him softly and she can’t keep a thread of mocking laughter from her voice. “You’d just kill me.”
“Shannon.”
She closes her eyes, imagines it. For a fleeting moment she thinks Sayid-Sayid, and Islands, and the sweet scent of his skin on hers, and gods and black and white chess pieces moving across a wooden board-and then it’s gone because really, she can’t cling to something that has already let her go, and doesn’t even exist. Not anymore.
“No,” she says sternly. “No, I’m not going.” She’s not ready to play this game again, she thinks. More than that, she’s not willing. She’s not sure what Libby or Charlie or Eko are doing, and she’s sure as hell not sure what Boone is doing, but this is what she’s doing. And maybe that’s something-or maybe that’s nothing at all, maybe Jacob guessed as much. She didn’t know really.
She was never any good at chess, anyway.
Later, when Boone leaves in a heartbreakingly sad huff of confusion (and no, she adds, she won’t showing up at his hotel room tonight with a bottle of jack in one hand and Boone’s heart in the other) she sits down on the creaking motel bed and flips on the television to the news, and waits.
The crash never comes, and she guesses that means the joke’s on her. But then again, it always was.