Lost_Squee

End-of-Summer Lost Comment Ficathon!

2016-08-16T15:22:46Z

It's been a while, lostsquee, let's see if we can get this thing started shall we?
END OF SUMMER LOST COMMENT FIC-A-THON

01. Post a ton of prompts, one per comment, any damn character/pairing you please, everything welcome.
02. Don't be shy! More prompts = more inspiration, but do try to vary the characters/pairings a bit (if you can!)
03. Fill! Just a drabble will do! Doesn't have to be an epic. We just want the fic! If you decide to fill a prompt, post fic or link to fic in response to it.
05. Share! Post a link to this ficathon in your journal! E-mail your old lost buddies and tell them to come join in the fun!
04. Profit!

Stealing this comment ficathon format from stainofmylove! I hope she doesn't mind! :)

taps mic Anybody out there?

2016-08-16T14:53:44Z

Anybody interested in some end-of-summer comment fic? Are any Lost people still around? I'm not aiming for a revival here, just curious!

Lost 10 Year Anniversary

2014-09-22T05:53:49Z

Today, September 22, 2014, is the 10-year anniversary of the airing of the Lost pilot in the U.S. As such, it’s as good a time as any to reflect back on the amazing times we had as a fandom, some of them right here at this comm. The Lost Luau, Lost HOHOHO, Lost Riffs, Lost Horror, drabble challenges, fic battles… we had us some fun, didn’t we?

If you want to bask in the nostalgia, take a stroll through the tag list - maybe you’ll come upon one of your Queen days from the Luau, or a fic that was gifted to you in one of the exchanges.

I hope, wherever you are now, that you carry with you many great memories of your time in the Lost fandom, and that in the post-Los era you have found other fandom homes where you squee and thrive and create and learn and love.

Happy Anniversary, Losties!

LOST HOHOHO Masterlist

2012-01-08T03:26:23Z

Hellooo!

I have to apologize for the lateness of this reveal. Somehow the days got away from me, big time! But at last, here is the complete list of the 2011 LOST HOHOHO stories with author names included.

Thanks to everyone who participated! It's gratifying to see that the LOST fandom retains its diversity in character and pairing preferences (though Sawyer seems to be the common denominator for many of us!).

There's a lot of wonderful fic behind the cut - if you haven't read yet, it's not too late!

Thanks again and Happy 2012 from your mods!

the curse (Boone/Richard), PG-13, by janie_tangerine for sunsetdawn20
“I know that his touch killed you because he did the same to me, once. But I fear it was for opposite reasons.” or, where Boone might be dead and Richard might be immortal, but the reason is the same and the result isn’t that different after all.

Into the Abyss (James/Juliet), PG, by alliecat8 for tellshannon815
Sawyer has some secrets to deal with in the 70’s.

The Detective and the Doctor (Jack/Sawyer), R, by jaydblu for alliecat8
Jack finds himself having the most unlikely day with someone he would have never imagined.

My Worst Enemy Makes for my Best Friend (Kate/Sayid), PG-13, by angeldylan628 for aurilly
The more Sayid inserts himself in her life the harder she tries to set boundaries. The more she sets the more obvious it becomes that it's all for show. Post-island AU.

Always Something There to Remind Me (Sawyer/Miles), PG, by tellshannon815 for gottalovev
When the woman Kevin knew as Monica Callis is brought into the police station where he works, he takes off for Florida unsure if he will return. Sawyer and Miles go on a road trip to bring him back.

Over (Jack/Juliet), PG-13, by krilymcc for tia_no_one
This is a story of love turned disaster.

It's Raining in Paris & I'm In Love (Jack/Sawyer), NC-17, by ciaimpala for eponine119
When Shannon pays for Sawyer and Jack’s second honeymoon in Paris if they’ll come to her concert, the two men of course say yes.

talk about your revolution (gen, Kate, Sawyer), PG-13, by irishunicorn03 for angeldylan628
It isn't shocking. Not really. Her mother is dead. And it's Christmas Eve.

Untitled: The Lost Manuscript of Carver Edlund (x-over with Supernatural, multiple pairings), PG-13, by ozmissage for hitlikehammers
Excerpts from an unpublished series written by infamous missing author, Carver Edlund. Editor’s Note: Read with caution. Nothing is ever explained.

First Moves (Jack/Sawyer), NC-17, by haldoor for jaydblu
A disagreement over Sawyer's stash leads to some interesting moves.

The Letter (gen, Sawyer), PG-13, by fosfomifira for haldoor
As days go by, Sawyer realizes that time waits for no man.

All This Happened, More or Less (James/Juliet), PG, by tia_no_one for krilymcc
There's a horizontal line across the top of his nose, and it makes James uneasy to look at, because, Jesus, it's just another sign that this is his kid, and once again, he has everything to lose.

The hardest part (Claire/Kate), NC-17, by sunsetdawn20 for maddie508
AU where they never went back to the island, 8 years after leaving Kate is still haunted by Claire’s memory

The Ice-Axe (Jack/Sawyer, PG,by eponine119 for ciaimpala
A reunion in a bookshop.

Cat and Mouse (Sawyer/Kevin), R, by gottalovev for fosfomifira
Sawyer knows he should not do this.

Between the lines (mind the gap)(Kate, Claire, gen), PG-13, by maddie508 for irishunicorn03
Claire and Kate, before and after their reunion.

Like There's No Tomorrow (Charlie/Richard), R, by hitlikehammers for janie_tangerine
Since before he can remember, all Charlie’s ever needed was the music, the beat.

the record you used to play (gen, Hurley, Sayid, Shannon, Charlie), PG-13, by aurilly for ozmissage
Hurley and Sayid keep planning trips to save other people, but it turns out they’re the ones who need saving. Charlie and Shannon to the rescue… sort of.

lost hohoho 2011 mod post - posting is done!

2011-12-26T10:40:04Z

Hi!

This should have been up the day before yesterday (sorry! It's the holidays eating up time! ;) ), but however: all the fics written for this year's Lost HoHoHo have been posted. (If we messed up for some reason, shoot us an e-mail at lostsqueemods at gmail dot com.) The authors will be revealed on January 4th - meanwhile, there's plenty of time to go through them as soon as we all recover from food-induced holiday coma. ;) meanwhile, happy holidays!

your mods (who are slowly freeing themselves of their food-induced coma..)

the record you used to play, for ozmissage

2011-12-24T09:25:18Z

Title: the record you used to play
Author: aurilly
Recipient: ozmissage
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
Summary: Hurley and Sayid keep planning trips to save other people, but it turns out they’re the ones who need saving. Charlie and Shannon to the rescue… sort of.
Author notes: A crossover cameo wrote itself in here before I even realized it.

Hurley spots Sayid sitting by himself at the far end of the beach, doing his solitary alpha male thing. It’s always something—digging holes, spearing coconuts, loading shotguns. Something that results in a lot of sweat and grunts and chicks swooning in the bushes as they watch.

Hurley wishes some of that could rub off on him.

Oh well.

“Hey, Sayid,” he says, shielding his eyes from the splinters that fly up from the axe. Chopping wood is the activity of the day.

Sayid puts the weapon down and turns around. “Yes, Hurley?”

“You busy this weekend?”

Sayid raises an eyebrow and wipes his hands on his already-filthy shirt. “If I remember correctly, today is only Monday. Why do you ask?”

“Really? Dude, I thought it was Friday.”

Sayid gestures around them, at the sea, at the cliffs. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” That was sort of depressing and now Hurley’s lost his momentum. This happens a lot when he’s talking to Sayid. It’s weird how someone can be his friend, and so totally nice and polite and stuff, but still shut a conversation down like that, without meaning to. And Sayid definitely doesn’t mean to or even realize he’s doing it, because now he’s looking at Hurley expectantly, with a patient expression on his sweaty face.

“Hurley?” he asks. “Is everything all right?”

Hurley takes a deep breath and it all comes tumbling out. “It’s Charlie. You know how I asked you to talk to him about his, you know, his wartime thing?”

“His post traumatic stress disorder? Yes. I spoke with him yesterday.”

“Well, I don’t know if it was enough. Not your fault or anything. It’s just that he’s still all traumatized and stuff. So I was thinking, maybe we need to crank this up to phase two.”

“And phase two consists of what, exactly?”

“Well, back in high school when one of my friends was really down because his dog died, we took him on a road trip. It was my mom’s idea. It’s like, the all-American cure for the blues.”

Sayid’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “But Charlie is English.”

“Yeah, and we’re on an island with no roads. So we gotta improvise. That’s why I’m thinking we should go on a camping trip.”

** ** **

The sound of the phone ringing interrupts Sayid’s dream and prevents him from discerning whether or not it counts as a nightmare.

Even without the interruption, he should have figured it out by now; it’s the same dream he has every night, and recently, he’s started having a version of it during the day, too.

(The logical part of him, the part that is comforted by the daily lies he tells, knows that clutching the rotting corpses of one’s lost loved ones counts as a nightmare. The honest part of him considers seeing them alive and beautiful during the day even more terrifying.)

Groggily, he casts about for his cell phone, and his hand catches it on the night-table. Emblazoned upon the face is a smiling photograph of Hurley. Sayid groans. “Hurley? It’s…” He looks at the clock on the night-table. “It’s 7am.”

Instead of Hurley’s soothing drawl, a woman’s voice booms at him, wholly unapologetic.

“Sayid? This is Carmen. Hugo’s mother.”

Sayid sits up, panicked. “What has happened?”

“Nothing has happened,” she yells, not seeming to realize that his phone might be set at an audible volume.

Sayid takes that as a signal to relax and settles back down into his pillows again. He’s only been awake for 30 seconds, but he’s already cycled through three modes. This is par for the course with Carmen.

“How can I help you?” he asks.

“It’s about Hugo,” she says, as though she would be calling him from Hurley’s phone about anyone else. “I’m worried about him.”

“Why?”

“He has been acting strangely. I don’t think he is well. He wants to go back to Santa Rosa. He won’t tell me why. He won’t talk to his own mother, but maybe he will talk to you. Will you try?”

Sayid blinks ten times in rapid succession and hangs his head into his chest, still grasping at wakefulness. He’s never been a morning person. “Yes, of course,” he answers automatically, not because he has a plan, but rather because for the first time since leaving the island, someone is asking him to help, and he’s been aching for such an opportunity. And maybe also a little bit because he needs someone to talk to as well. There’s something wrong with him, but he doesn’t have anyone who knows him well enough to notice the way Hurley’s mother does. “I will come by this morning.”

“Thank you, Sayid. I knew I could count on you. You’ve always been a good man.”

Compliments hurt more than insults; what he considers misapprehensions hurt more than the truths he’s come to believe.

“I will see you soon.”

** ** **

“In case you haven’t noticed, we live on a sodding beach. We eat boar that Locke uses his bare hands to kill. I wiped my arse with a fern this morning. We are camping.”

Charlie’s at the other end of the beach, sitting under his tarp and exuding the opposite of Sayid’s politely accommodating attitude.

Hurley all but shoves his friend to his feet. “Aw, come on, it’ll be fun.”

“What, you and me alone in the jungle of death and despair? No thanks, mate. Sounds like a suicide mission.”

“Sayid’s coming. He’s the most hardcore person on this island. Nothing bad’ll happen to us if he’s around.”

Charlie thinks about it for a minute. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, dude. Just wanna explore the island a little. Take a couple of days away from all this.” Hurley waves at the glorious beach, and realizes that he might have just weakened his argument. Between the beach and the jungle, well, there isn’t really much of a question. Beach wins, every time.

Thankfully, Charlie’s PTSD works in Hurley’s favor, because Charlie simply shrugs, doesn’t seem to notice. “Fine. Just to get you off my back. Can I take my guitar?”

“Yeah. Definitely, dude.”

Just then, Sayid strolls up with a pack on his back and a gun sticking out of his back pocket. Any doubts Charlie may still have about them not being in good hands have to disappear right now, because Sayid looks even more badass than usual.

“Did you have a destination in mind?” he asks, going straight to business.

“I dunno. I was thinking maybe we explore the island that way?” Hurley points in the opposite direction to the one Sayid took on his solitary alpha-male trip a couple of weeks before.

They’re on their way when a shrill voice stops them. “Hey, where are you going?”

Hurley turns around to see Shannon stomping down the beach after them, decked out in hiking equipment. Well, the closest thing to hiking equipment Hurley’s ever seen her wear. She gets points for trying.

“We’re going camping,” Charlie says.

“I’m coming, too.”

The three men glance nervously at one another. “I don’t know. I mean… your asthma. And stuff,” Hurley says weakly.

She pulls a ziploc of green goop out of her pack. “I have extra rations from Sun. I’m good.” She pokes Sayid accusingly in the stomach. “You could have invited me.”

“It was not my invitation to extend,” he apologizes. “Also, I never imagined you would be interested.”

Shannon shields her eyes from the sun and glances behind her. “Yeah, well, it beats sticking around here. All the wood chopping for the raft is giving me a headache.”

Hurley shrugs, and looks at Sayid, who catches his eye and apologetically juts his chin out.

“If Sayid is Superman,” Charlie whispers in Hurley’s ear as they set out with Shannon in tow, “then she’s Kryptonite.”

** ** **

Sayid doesn’t stop for breakfast or a cup of coffee or to read the newspaper. This life of leisure does not suit him, so he jumps at this, the first assignment he’s been given in months. He’s at Hurley’s mansion within the hour, bag packed and ready in the back seat. He shouldn’t be this excited, but he is, giddiness warming the tips of his toes (he’s trained himself never to let such sentiments rise any further; it isn’t safe).

Mrs. Reyes answers the doorbell and kisses him firmly on both cheeks. Sayid closes his eyes and breathes the contact in. His own mother died many years ago. In longer than he can remember, Hurley’s mother is the only person who has kissed him like that, looked at him like that, pinched his cheeks like that—like he’s a good boy who actually deserves it. He hopes he never has to disabuse her of this misapprehension.

“Hello, Mrs. Reyes,” he says. He’s still awkward with hugs.

“How many times have I told you to call me Carmen?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid.”

The house is the usual whirlwind of activity that it should be improbable for a massive residence of only three people to create. Both the wide-screen television and the news radio station are on. Hurley’s father scurries about, packing a bag and dangling a half-eaten bagel between his teeth. He waves distractedly and mumbles an inarticulate hello at Sayid as he passes between rooms. Mrs. Reyes chastises him about something, and they conduct an odd argument—half mumbling, half yelling, half English, half Spanish—that is intensified when Hurley blunders out of his bedroom with his hands over his ears, singing, “Lalalala I can’t hear you.”

It’s raucous and ridiculous and the most beautiful din Sayid has ever heard.

Hurley looks even more of a mess than usual, with his hair wild and his clothes unkempt. Sayid may not know him as well as his mother does, but he knows him well enough to see that the worry occasioning this morning’s call was warranted. There’s something scared behind Hurley’s eyes, even as he sees Sayid and comes running to engulf him in a bear hug.

“Hey, man. What are you doing here?” Hurley asks as Sayid loses his balance and they both tip over the back of the couch and onto the cushions.

Now on the floor and tangled in a fuchsia afghan, Sayid smiles; he’s officially part of the household.

He doesn’t look at Mrs. Reyes as he replies, “I came to see you. I thought we could do something this weekend.”

“Dude, it’s Tuesday.”

Sayid represses a smile, and continues a conversation that began long ago. “Does it matter?”

Hurley narrows his eyes; he’s always been sharper than almost anyone except Sayid gives him credit for. His gaze slides over to his mother. “Ma?” he bleats, the extension of the vowel filling in the rest of the question, and the answer as well.

There are very few lies in this house, and even fewer pretenses. Mrs. Reyes immediately confesses. “Yes, I called him. Hugo, go with him. Please.”

Hurley glares at his mother and then turns his attention to Sayid, and there’s real hurt in his eyes. “You’re hanging out with me because my mom told you to?”

“Hurley. We see each other every week. I probably would have called you tomorrow, regardless.”

Still suspicious, Hurley says, “Let me guess: road trip?”

“We should take your car.”

Within a few minutes, Sayid is helping Hurley haul luggage through the garage and into the Hummer. “Where shall we go?” Sayid asks.

“Vegas, obviously.”

“In what way is that obvious?”

“It’s where all guys who want to cheer up their buddies go. Haven’t you ever seen Swingers?”

“No.”

“Typical.”

** ** **

Hurley couldn’t have picked a better day for this. The sun’s shining, but since it rained yesterday, there’s plenty of water and the sand isn’t too hot. Sayid’s quite a few paces ahead of the rest of them. He’s being quiet, but then again, he’s always quiet.

Surprisingly, Shannon’s doing most of the heavy lifting, Charlie-wise. He’s never thought about it before, but now that they’re hanging out, he realizes she’s been more, well, friendly, in the past week or so.

“Your brother’s super hot,” he hears her say behind him.

“How do you know?”

“I went to one of your concerts once.”

“Oh yeah, where?” Charlie asks, immediately chirpier.

“When you were in LA a few years back. My friend Angie was, like, obsessed with you guys. Her dad was this big music producer, so we got backstage tickets.”

“You came backstage? Maybe we met!”

“Angie hooked up with your brother. I don’t remember what I did. I was so wasted.”

“I probably was, too,” Charlie says. “Maybe you and I… ships that pass in the night.”

“In your dreams.”

Hurley realizes he’s all by himself, walking between the two of them in the back and Sayid up front. Shannon and Charlie seem to be doing okay, so he scurries to catch up with Sayid, who’s been walking way too quickly for what’s supposed to be a relaxing hike.

“So, uh, what’s all this about? I mean, with her?” he whispers. “I knew you were working on those translations, but… Is there something going on I should know about?”

“We are only friends. I was as surprised as you to find out she wanted to come today,” Sayid says, but there’s a pleased twinkle in his eye and a hopeful twitch in his lips and Hurley knows what that means even though the guy’s obviously trying to be modest and/or not jinx it.

“You mean there’s nothing yet. Hey, that’s awesome, dude. Random, but still awesome. I mean, we’re stuck on this island. Somebody should be doing it. And you guys are, like, the hottest people we’ve got. It’s classic. Like the prom queen and the… the… you know, I’m not sure which high school romantic comedy hero you are.”

Instead of replying, Sayid hands Hurley his water bottle. “Are you thirsty?”

Hurley turns around and sees that Shannon and Charlie are approaching earshot range (Sayid apparently has eyes in the back of his head), so he takes the hint and drinks.

“Hey, Hurley. Sayid. Did you hear this? It turns out Shannon and I shagged after one of my concerts.”

Sayid’s eyes subtly bug out of his head and he looks up at Shannon with such sad puppy eyes that make Hurley think maybe it’s not a high school flick at all. Maybe the movie he was looking for was Lady and the Tramp.

“Shut up!” Shannon says and punches Charlie in the shoulder. She turns bright red. “We did not!”

“You don’t know that. You just told me so.”

“Charlie,” Hurley says firmly, trying hard to play it cool and not look at Sayid. “Not now.”

“But—”

“Cool it, dude.”

“We should break for lunch,” Sayid chokes out. It’s a good thing his accent is so smooth, because Hurley can tell otherwise, he’d be stuttering.

If this keeps up, Hurley thinks Sayid’s the one who’ll need cheering up, not Charlie.

** ** **

Once they get past the traffic of the city, the road opens out and the smog disappears. Sayid knows it’s about four hours to Las Vegas. He’s never been there before and had never had any interest in going. Gambling and bright lights have never appealed to him.

Hurley has been quiet so far—quiet and scared—which is wholly out of character for him. Usually when they spend time together, Hurley devises their activities and drives most of the conversation, which Sayid finds comforting. Carmen was right to propose this; something is wrong, though Sayid isn’t confident he can do anything useful. This is an unprecedented role reversal. He has little practice in cheering up his friends. Before Hurley, he had little practice having friends at all.

“What happens in Swingers when the heroes arrive in Las Vegas?” he asks, trying to make the kind of easy conversation at which Hurley has always been so adept.

“They go out. Pick up waitresses. But the main guy is too hung up on his ex to go through with it.”

Sayid is confused as to how this relates to their current situation. “Is that what you would like to happen today?” he asks cautiously.

“No, dude. We don’t have to live out the movie. We just have to go. We can just, like, hang out by the pool. You won’t judge me if I order drinks with those little umbrellas, right?”

“Of course not,” Sayid says, relieved.

“Speaking of chicks, where’s Nadia?”

“She went to Iraq to visit friends.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

Hurley has a habit of asking questions Sayid doesn’t want to answer, but in a way that doesn’t come across as intrusive. In his own way, Hurley is as efficient an interrogator as Sayid is; he finds himself divulging information he would prefer not to. “The person I was when I was there... I’m afraid if I ever go back, I’ll become that person again. She still thinks of it as home, though.” He changes the subject. “Happily, her departure has left me free to spend time with you.”

Hurley takes his eyes off the empty road and glances over at Sayid. “Hey, are you okay? You seem kinda off.”

“I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“You and me both, dude.”

There’s a flash, the usual understanding between them, and Sayid wonders if they have more in common as of late than they have divulged so far.

“Is there a reason for your sleeplessness?” he asks.

Hurley reaches for some Combos that Sayid bought on his way to Hurley’s house (after spending so much time together, they’ve become a guilty pleasure of Sayid’s, too).

“Dude, if I told you, you’d think I was crazy.”

“Nothing you could say would ever make me think you were crazy.”

Hurley munches, turning this over in his mind. Finally, he blurts out, “I keep seeing Charlie. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s why my mom called you. I keep seeing Charlie, and that’s crazy. Because, you know, he’s dead.”

They drive in silence for a minute as Sayid drinks this in. Hurley isn’t crazy, even though Sayid wishes he were. He wishes they both were. It would be easier to handle than sanity.

“You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” Hurley says after time has passed without a response from Sayid. “And you’re trying to think of a nice way of telling me so.”

“Not at all.”

“Then what?”

Sayid sits upright, and tries to approach this as rationally as such a topic can be treated, without giving too much away. “When you see Charlie, does he look bloated, like the corpse of a drowned man would, or does he appear to you alive and healthy?”

“Usually alive. And, like, dressed like he would be if he were here with us. I mean, not in anything I ever saw him wear. And he’s gotten a haircut.”

“I see.” It’s confirmation, of a sort. Sayid feels a chill run down his back. This day is too sunny, too beautiful and open to also include such disturbing revelations.

Hurley looks searchingly at Sayid. “What, have you been seeing Charlie, too?”

“No. I have not seen Charlie since the day he sailed off with Desmond.”

“Oh,” Hurley says, disappointed. “Well, he says ‘hey’.”

Sayid doesn’t know how to respond to this. “Tell him I say ‘hey’, too.”

“Sure thing, man.”

Sayid has a feeling this isn’t what Mrs. Reyes had in mind when she asked him to help her son.

** ** **

By the time they make camp for the night, the uncomfortable moment has blown over. Charlie keeps winking at Shannon, who flips him the bird whenever Sayid isn’t looking, but both smile like they’re joking, not serious. It’s the most Hurley’s ever seen these two talk before; it’s more than he’s seen anyone talk to her, other than her brother and Sayid. She and Charlie are actually, sort of, kind of, getting along. But still, Shannon makes a point of helping Sayid set up the tents and trying to talk about world events and stuff. Sayid looks at her quizzically, but seems to appreciate the effort.

“So about earlier…” he hears her whisper to Sayid.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hurley feels like he’s back in high school. But a more fun version of high school, with people he actually likes. The island’s okay in that way, though most people don’t seem to have realized it yet.

“Having fun yet?” he asks Charlie.

Charlie swings his body sideways, body-checking Hurley in a friendly way. He’s almost back to his old self. Or at least, the self he was a couple of weeks ago. Hurley can’t say for sure what anyone’s ‘old self’ was like. “Yeah. Thanks, mate.”

“Any time.”

It’s a great night. They roast fruit (there isn’t much else) under the stars and tell spooky stories. Hurley knows all the ones Shannon tells, but Sayid and Charlie seem to have grown up with some different ones.

It takes some prodding to get Sayid to tell stories, but it’s worth it; and after awhile he loosens up a little (not much, but hey, it’s something) and sort of gets into it. It turns out everything sounds kind of spooky in Sayid’s accent. In a good way.

Later, Charlie gets out his guitar and Shannon sings along. Sayid sits there, whittling something and listening quietly, but he radiates a kind happy peace that’s better than most people’s laughter.

“Hurley,” Sayid whispers just before they go to sleep.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. I needed this.”

Hurley pats himself on the back.

Well, not literally. That would be kind of hard.

** ** **

Sayid hadn’t had time to make reservations, but Hurley has it all figured out. They’re to stay at the Bellagio, he says. Sayid doesn’t know any of the casinos, so he is happy to follow Hurley’s lead in this instance. They check into a penthouse suite that overlooks The Strip. It’s garish and loud and full of prostitutes, and Sayid doesn’t like it one bit, but he tolerates it, for his friend’s sake.

The only problem is that Hurley seems just as out of place here.

“Pool?” Hurley awkwardly suggests after they’ve watched the fountains from their balcony for a few minutes.

“If you wish.”

They walk downstairs in silence. Sayid has been lost in himself ever since Hurley’s confession, unsure whether or not to make his own.

They rent an expensive cabana, usually intended either for parties or celebrity couples. But this one is just for the two of them, and Sayid knows they look ridiculous, especially when they both keep their shirts on. Neither of them is an exhibitionist. And they may be wealthy now, but neither of them has the temperament for this kind of life.

Sayid orders a scotch with his lunch, and Hurley sips a mojito (‘they’re delicious’ he insists). Together, they sit under their canopy and watch the throngs of fashionable, mostly naked people cavort in the water. Sayid tries not to ogle, and to be honest, he isn’t at all interested, but one girl in particular catches his eye. Her hair is longer, but her perfectly tanned back and legs are familiar. Before he knows it, he’s stood up and walked to the edge of the water in an effort to get a closer look at her. She turns and winks at him as she climbs up the far steps of the pool, and maybe he’s crazy, but he follows because it’s her and because he sometimes forgets (or rather, he doesn’t want to remember) that this shouldn’t be happening.

He’s halfway to the other end of the pool when she slips between two drunken men and disappears into the bar room. He searches, but she’s gone.

Sayid spins around in a circle, trying to see where she went. The only thing near him is a giant jukebox. The page of songs that is currently open prominently features ‘The Best of Driveshaft’.

Sayid slowly walks backwards, away from it, shaking his head in horror. His back collides into someone. “I’m so sorry,” he says, turning around to find himself nose to nose with Hurley, who has come looking for him.

“You just ran off. What the hell? Are you okay?”

“I thought I saw…” Sayid holds his forehead. He feels dizzy.

Hurley steadies him with strong arms and forces him to look up. “It’s her, isn’t it? You see her. That’s why you believe me about Charlie. Right?”

Sayid nods. “It was only occasionally at first. But recently, it’s been almost every day. She’s beckoning me somewhere. I don’t understand it.”

At this moment, one of the drunken young things comes up to them (ever since leaving the island, Sayid has felt old, so old). He has curly brown locks, expressive eyebrows and a lanky frame. He looks inordinately pleased to see them.

“You’re those guys, yeah?” he says in an Irish accent.

Both Sayid and Hurley cringe. They lack Kate and Jack’s ability to weather fame.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sayid attempts to bluff.

“From that plane crash. I remember you.” He points from one to the other. “The fat one and the sad one. And now you’re on a date. That’s so cute.” He waggles his eyebrows at them suggestively.

“We’re not on a date,” Hurley mumbles.

“Yeah, and I’m not shagging that beautiful girl over there rotten.” He points at a young woman holding a baby. “I know. Nice one.” He winks.

Both Sayid and Hurley simply stare, speechless.

“Speaking of beautiful girls, did you see that blonde bint who just went by? I lost sight of her. Short skirt, bouncy ponytail. Bouncy other things…”

She may be dead, she may be impossible, but the fact that someone else has seen her means that she’s real enough to avenge. He grabs this kid by the throat and lifts him into the air. “Do not speak of her in that way.”

“What, is she your girlfriend or something? Are you going to kill me? Go ahead. I don’t mind.” His voice is too naturally high to sound threatening, and the boredom is oddly real.

“Sayid, Sayid, put him down,” Hurley pleads.

“Leave us alone,” Sayid says, giving one last squeeze before setting him on the ground again.

The kid massages his neck. “You people are touchy. Anyway, if you see her…”

Sayid all but growls, and Hurley drags him away. As they begin to walk away, they hear him say, “Oooh, Driveshaft. God, I love those annoying cunts.” Hurley’s in mid-turn, just as furious as Sayid was a moment ago, but the boy must not mean anything by it, because within seconds, Charlie’s voice can be heard over the din of the bar. It sounds even eerier for being so cheerful.

“Let’s get outta here,” Hurley says. “I can’t handle this right now.”

“He saw her,” Sayid murmurs on the way back to their cabana. Everything is breaking—his heart, his mind, his grasp on reality. “Hurley, he saw her. Did you see her?”

“No. I’ve never seen her. I’m sorry. Only Charlie so far.”

Sayid clings to Hurley’s shirt, but feels so alone, despite knowing Hurley is going through the same thing.

When they collapse on their cabana, Sayid reaches for his scotch, now warm from the hot sun. “Why is this happening to us?”

“I don’t know, dude. But I wish it would stop.”

“For me, the worst part is that I’m not that sure I do.”

** ** **

The plan the next morning is to head a bit further down the beach and then, since Sayid says they’re on a sort of peninsula, they’ll take a shortcut across a strip of jungle and back home.

Charlie and Hurley swap stories on learning how to swim (Hurley’s shoched to find out there are no Y’s in England). Shannon and Sayid walk a few steps ahead, whispering just out of earshot. Hurley has no idea what they’re finding to talk about, but they’re in their own little world.

Charlie happens to look up at them, and Hurley can almost see the light-bulb going off over his head. “Is that what’s going on? I had no idea.”

“You are, like, the least observant person on this island. It’s totally obvious.”

“I’m observant, mate.” He casts his eyes around for something to point out. He shouts, “Like that. Over there, what’s that? Looks like a ladder. See, I’m observant.”

Sayid overhears and looks, too. “It is a ladder.”

Carefully, they make their way to the edge of the cliff-face that before now they’d been avoiding. Charlie’s right. There’s a ladder leading down the side of the cliff. The top of it sticks out just a foot above the ground.

“Did you see anything like this when you went on your trip?” Hurley asks.

“I saw a thick electrical wire buried in the sand, but nothing like this. This looks like the work of pre-industrial groups. Look at how the wood has been cut with a knife, not with modern tools.”

“I think there’s something down there,” Shannon says, leaning over the edge and pointing at where the ladder ends.

“Hold the top for me,” Sayid tells Charlie.

“You aren’t going down there, are you? That’s madness.”

Something about this place calls to Hurley, even though he couldn’t say why if you asked him. “I’m coming with you.”

Sayid’s already started climbing down, but he stops and looks up at Hurley. “I don’t think you should. We don’t know what’s down here.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hurley, listen to the man,” Charlie pleads.

Shannon’s folds her arms. “I don’t see why anyone has to go. Why’s everyone always trying to be a hero? Whatever’s down there isn’t going to get us rescued, so who even cares?”

Hurley ignores the naysayers and focuses on Sayid. He’s learned by now that Sayid doesn’t really knock people down; he’ll respond if you make it clear that something’s really important to you. “I mean it. I can do this.”

As predicted, Sayid listens carefully, and bites his lip while he thinks. He jumps gently on the ladder. “It is sturdy. But you’d have to be careful.”

He grins. “Careful’s my middle name.”

“You told me it was Jesus,” Charlie snaps as Sayid starts climbing down. He and Shannon hold the top of the ladder and watch him, and then grab it tighter when Hurley places his feet on the rungs.

It’s really not that bad, as long as Hurley keeps looking up. And he’s spryer than he looks, so it only takes a minute to get down. Sayid’s already explored the main part of the landing by the time Hurley gets there. There isn’t much there: just some sort of old-fashioned scale with a rock on each side. He picks up the dark one and turns it over in his hands. “How strange.”

“Dude, this place is creepy.”

Sayid ignores him and keeps waking. “There’s another cave in here. Do we have any more torches?” he asks.

“We used them all last night.”

Sayid disappears into a dark cave entrance at the right. Hurley hangs back until Sayid reappears, and plays with the scale. The whole thing is kind of a let-down.

“I walked around,” Sayid says when he reemerges, “but there is nothing in here. I think the bears must have been in here at one point, because there are scratches all along the walls.”

“What do you see?” Shannon’s voice wafts down from above.

“Nothing of import,” Sayid shouts back. “We’re coming back up.”

Hurley waits while Sayid goes up first, but near the top, the ladder rung breaks and he falls a few feet before catching himself. Shannon and Charlie above, and Hurley below, all freak out.

Man, Shannon can really scream.

Even though he’s basically dangling on a piece of wood, and he’s one second from plummeting to his death, Sayid’s still calm and able to bark out orders. He tells Hurley to climb up as far as he can behind him, while the ladder still holds, and wait for him to get to the top so the three of them can use their combined strength to drag Hurley the rest of the way.

“What if it breaks while I’m still on it?” Hurley looks down at the steep drop and the rocks in the water.

“It won’t if you keep your movements calm and controlled.”

“Not very reassuring.”

Once he gets into range, Shannon and Charlie both grab hold of Sayid’s uppermost arm and pull, heaving him up the last few feet and back to the top of the cliff. As soon as he’s up, he bends down and grabs hold of Hurley’s hand. It’s a long, shaky, awful process, but soon, he joins them on firm ground.

He rolls over and catches his breath on the bare rocks. Sayid, who’s held it together just long enough to help him, finally lets it all out, too.

Hurley looks up at Shannon and Charlie, who are standing over them with their arms crossed, grinning.

“You saved us. Thanks, guys,” Hurley says.

“No problem. You two owe us, though. Remember that.” Shannon smiles as she says it, and Hurley knows she’s only joking… maybe. In her own way, she’s just as hardcore as Sayid.

“Sure thing.”

** ** **

As Hurley says, they’re here, so they might as well gamble.

All Sayid wants is to play a couple of hands and then head to bed. Tomorrow, he’ll suggest leaving this godforsaken place and visiting the big dam, of which he’s heard so much about. That would be more to his (and probably Hurley’s) liking.

It hasn’t even been a full day, but it comes as no surprise that neither of them are very good at ‘swinging’.

They set themselves up at a medium-stakes poker table. A couple of other players join them, but the table isn’t full. Sayid is staring at his cards when out of the corner of his eye, he sees blonde hair swoosh across from him. Reflexively, he looks up and sees Shannon sliding into one of the two empty seats at the table. She smiles fondly at him, then checks out his outfit and shakes her head, disappointed. Sayid gazes at her wordlessly, breath held, hoping that if he stays still, she’ll stay longer than she usually does.

“The loser in the suit is bluffing,” she says, even though she is in no position to see his cards. “Nothing but a pair of threes.”

“Thank you,” he says, ostensibly to the dealer. He knows it makes no sense, but he hopes she understands that his remarks are really directed to her.

Sayid reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and mops his brow. He begins sweating from the effort—the effort of keeping her here and keeping the secret from everyone else. He wants to reach out and touch her, talk to her, but other than that one young man earlier, he doesn’t think anyone else can see her. No one else has acknowledged her arrival, at least.

He glances over at Hurley, who is similarly sweating.

“She’s here,” he whispers.

“So’s Charlie,” Hurley mutters. He nods in the direction of the other empty seat at the table.

“Charlie’s here? Where?” she asks excitedly, and looks around. Given where Hurley says Charlie is sitting, she must be looking right through him in the same way everyone else is looking right through her.

“You sure she’s here? Charlie says he doesn’t see her.”

“No whispering, please, gentlemen,” the dealer says.

But it’s too late, because Shannon’s face has already fallen. “He’s here and I can’t even see him? I may look fabulous, but being dead sucks. There’s no one to talk to. By the way, you should fold. That other guy has a full house.”

“I miss you,” he says. He’d meant to think it only, in the hope that perhaps she’s a telepathic ghost, which would be logical, since apparently all this is in his head, but it comes out anyway.

“I know. Why the hell else do you think you can see me?”

It’s logical, and Sayid nods to himself in agreement. On one of the upswings, he happens to look up and sees that everyone is staring at him. Everyone, that is, except Hurley, who is currently shaking his head and putting his fingers in his ears.

“Sirs?” The voice of the frightened dealer goes unheeded.

“You don’t have to,” she says, ignoring them and leaning forward to touch his hand; she’s warm and soft, not icy like he would have expected. “We can all be together again. You can fix this. Make it so Charlie and I can hang out while we wait for the rest of you. Boone, too. And my dad. You know what you need to do.”

“I don’t know. What is that?” he whispers, ceasing to care if anyone else can hear.

Just then, Hurley blows up at one of the players. “You’re cheating! You have two queens of clubs. That’s not even possible, dude! And… and you’re wearing a toupée.”

“How the hell do you know that?” the toupéed one says.

“I have my ways.”

“I think you two are the cheaters, with your whispering and your code talk. Either that or you’re crazy.”

A few minutes later, after more embarrassment, Hurley and Sayid are dragged unceremoniously out of the casino by security. They pass by their Irish friend from earlier in the day, who is also being roughed up dragged out. He waves. “You, too? Cheers!”

They’re told to wait while their luggage is brought down to the garage. Hurley sits on the cold concrete floor while Sayid paces.

“They are alone,” he says, hopeless and devastated. This is so much worse than he’d anticipated.

“That can’t be what it’s supposed to be like. Something’s wrong. It’s gotta, be, right? I don’t wanna die if I’m just going to be stuck all alone like that, haunting my friends and getting them kicked out of casinos.”

“She said we can fix it. But we were thrown out before she could tell me.”

Hurley looks up. “I think they want us to go back, dude.”

“But why? Shouldn’t they be happy we were rescued?”

“Do you really feel like we were rescued? I mean, we’re all pretty messed up. Desmond and Penny are on the run. Sun’s super pissed off. I’m lying to my mom. You’re lying to Nadia. Kate’s lying to Aaron. Jack’s…”

Sayid nods. “…Lying to himself.”

“We weren’t supposed to leave. We weren’t supposed to leave any of them. And now they’re all trapped and alone. Maybe if we go back, they can see each other again, you know? We can save them. We owe them. That’s what Charlie just told me. Remember?”

“I remember. But how do you propose we go back? Jack and I have both tried to find a way but have found nothing.”

“There’s always a way, dude.”

Sayid knows he’s right, but he also knows some things are beyond their understanding. “If there is, perhaps it will find us. Until then…”

The men arrive with their luggage, and Sayid packs it away.

Hurley starts the car. “Back home?”

Sayid nods. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t a particularly successful roadtrip.”

“No man, it was good. At least now we know we’re not alone, right? We’re not crazy.”

“Yes, that is something. For now, at least.”

like there's no tomorrow, for janie_tangerine

2011-12-24T09:21:36Z

Title: Like There’s No Tomorrow
Author: hitlikehammers
Recipient: janie_tangerine
Rating: R
Pairing: Charlie/Richard
Warnings: Sexual situations, mentions of drug use
Summary: Since before he can remember, all Charlie’s ever needed was the music, the beat.
Author notes: I tried to work in a (pre)-S1 feel with your prompt of “Meeting at a concert” -- I just hope you’ll 1) forgive my rustiness with this fandom, and 2) not hate the somewhat-unorthodox pairing I pulled out of your favorite characters list. Either way, though, I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Holidays!

Like There’s No Tomorrow

Since before he can remember -- as in really remember: more than yellowed photographs or his granddad's half-mad stories come Christmas holidays at his Aunt Moureen's place down in Surrey; since before he can even rightly say, the music's been what moves him, what thrums faster and hotter and harder in his veins than any of his brother’s highs, and it's what takes him, consumes him and brings him up, fuller and deeper than he knows how to get on his own, than he suspects even Liam can promise with the drugs -- when he's playing a sold-out show in front of rows of screaming girls, crowd peppered with the kind of jailbait you can't even dream up on the best of nights, that he knows, fucking knows his bandmates can’t hardly touch with a needle near their arms and a hand on their dicks; when the music's got him he doesn't see the fans. When the music's got him, none of it matters: the sex, the money and the fame, the way Liam asks him every fucking night once he’s too far gone to remember, to bloody fucking think; the way Liam asks him to take a hit, just one -- all of that shit just waits at the door.

When he's playing to the stars, to the skies overhead, all he knows is the cadence, the relentlessness of the beat.

So there's no precedent, really; there's no explaining why every time he hits a chord, every time he wraps up a finger-bleeding solo or catches his breath off the chorus, pulls back from Liam's mic, his eyes wander to the same slip of chest, the same peek of skin inching out from an unbuttoned oxford, the collar of it wrinkled and limp at the sides of a lean, sinewy neck, shirt the color of mesas and old rust, of sunsets and certain kinds of sand -- eyes hooded, but Charlie thinks they're likely dark.

But the fact is that there's no explanation for why Charlie fucking Pace can't keep his gaze from wandering, can’t keep his hands from nearly missing their mark here and there, all because of a tall, dark, yet largely unremarkable stranger standing, motionless -- never even moving to the beat -- just at the left of the stacks.

There's no explanation, no precedent, but suddenly the music isn't all that Charlie knows; the music alone's not enough.

________________________________

Roderick tells him about a score he’s landed, waiting in the van, but Charlie’s preoccupied once the show’s done with, Charlie’s buzzing with something different, something the rest of them can’t touch.

So he waves Rod off, saying he needs a drink; which he does, to be honest -- he really fucking needs a drink, he needs to get pissed like there’s no tomorrow, if he’s frank about it, but what he’s hoping for more than oblivion -- more than the reason below the reason why he tells Rod to sod off and take his pussies and scag with him, because he needs but he won’t, not yet --

What he’s really hoping for is to run into the stranger in the blood-red shirt on his way through the venue; he’s hoping to plough straight into him, solid chest against him, breathe him in unnoticed before he pulls away and stares.

So he shrugs on a nondescript grey sweatshirt in hopes of evading attention, in hopes of sliding through the crowd unnoticed -- covers his ink and hikes the hood up around his head, keeps his chin down and his eyes up. He hits the edge of the bar at the back of the club with his hip and slides onto a vacated stool, and he’s a fucking moron, really, because he could get a goddamned drink with the guys, with the girls they’ve picked up for the night, but he’s out here, out here alone, and vulnerable, and gesturing for a drink, any drink, like he’s a goddamned beggar, like he’s got no taste, no discretion, no care; and the barkeep’s turned away and walking when a glass, from out of nowhere, settles cold, slick into his outstretched hand.

He shifts his glance, follows fingers -- long ones, elegant but not smooth -- up a wrist, forearm -- subtly tanned, the color different under the neons, the fluorescents at the bar -- to the rolled-up cuff of a shirt: rust-red, sanguine, and;

“That was one hell of a set.”

And that’s not the voice he’s expecting -- he doesn’t know what he was expecting instead, exactly, just that this isn’t quite it; it’s a little bit rougher, a little less deep, and those eyes, when he looks, are something more, lined darker than Charlie’d thought up in his head.

“Cheers,” Charlie says around a swallow, bringing the stranger’s gift to his lips, and his throat’s suddenly raw, suddenly sore and swollen with more than the screaming and the singing and the way he draws in breath, fast and shallow, frantic and full on the stage -- the way he draws in breath now, no reason for it, no sense in it except for how close this man is, how near and how the warmth in him’s right there, tangible and too slight, cool and yet magnetic inside the heat of the club, the bodies filing out. Charlie can feel his pulse in the pads of his fingers, slippery and unclean on the glass.

The stranger takes Charlie’s drink, the one he’d actually ordered, when it arrives, and Charlie can’t help but watch the way his throat works when he gulps it down, the way the swallow itself moves the muscles, pushes out against his carotid and give Charlie a glimpse of the pump of his blood below the skin, the pulse-point at his neck visible for an instant, a throb and then a give, and then gone.

And Christ, Charlie hasn’t felt this off-balance, this on-point, about to tumble or surge or combust -- he hasn’t felt this way in ages; more than.

“It’s been longer than I care to admit since I’ve been to a show like this,” the stranger tells him, doesn’t smile, looks kind of sad, and the way he talks is like a song in itself -- drives Charlie to an edge he doesn’t recognize, can’t quite identify, didn’t even know was there.

And Charlie, well -- Charlie’s had to look twice in the mirror more often than not, these days; doesn’t recognize himself at first-glance all the time, like he should. He’s turning into something he doesn’t really know, he can feel it, can sense it, and he prays his fucking rosary in the morning and at night, but it’s empty, he’s empty, and the world’s collapsing, the band’s pulling at the seams, and Charlie stares at his brother’s syringes, sometimes, and thinks what if and why not before he vomits in the tour bus’s toilet. Charlie’s falling to goddamned pieces, and he doesn’t have time to play games.

But come the day when he doesn’t have time to follow, to match a song, a symphony as keen as the one this man’s got playing behind his words, behind his eyes, well; that’s the day that Charlie Pace may as fucking well be dead.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks, because that’s what he wants, and the stranger doesn’t smile, but his limbs move like grace itself when he sets his glass down, takes Charlie’s from his hand and settles it just beside.

“You know?” the stranger says, and it’s a change of tempo, a shift in the composition that makes Charlie’s heart beat harder at the bone; “I think I just might.”

Charlie’s fingers itch for a string, for a note, so he slides off the stool and walks, listens for the rhythm of their footfalls in the night and follows it, lets it spell out the rest.

________________________________

Charlie’s grateful for a lot of things in his miserable, marvelous, half-fucked little life. He’s grateful for his brother -- grateful for that the shit his brother shoots into his veins hasn’t killed him yet. He’s grateful for the band, though he knows, knows in a place and a way that’s bigger and bolder than words or explanations, that they’re on their way out, that this will be it for them, and that whatever waits after might simply just not be enough. He’s grateful for his family, far as they are, little as he sees them. He’s grateful for his faith, as hollow as she sounds these days.

And most of all, in this moment, he’s grateful for this stranger in this rented hotel bed -- he’s grateful for this stranger’s long, elegant fingers, rough in all the creases, stroking at his skin; grateful for this stranger’s slightly-sharp, only-a-tad-bit-crooked teeth, grazing his neck, this stranger’s full lips sucking marks into his flesh as he pants, as he feels like his veins are going to burst and his soul’s gonna come undone in the interim, the interlude that builds between them as Charlie gropes, cups, teases the edge of a fingernail down his length and keens up, swallows down a moan and a gasp and a prayer he doesn’t understand as he cants, as he thrusts his hips up, catches friction in between them at the hips and trails his wet mouth down the stranger’s chin, drags his tongue against the stubble there, and relishes the build, moves his lips without words, gasps, gasps;

“Richard,” the stranger says, and Charlie doesn’t even care, just breathes back out;

“M’Charlie,” but;

“No,” the stranger says back as Charlie nips up his jawline, feels the tightness grow unbearable in his belly, at his groin, and all he can taste is himself between them, sweat from the stage and dried blood, coagulated, unhinged in the crease of his lip where he’d bitten it, where he’d fucking tried to regain focus and failed; and it's almost like this guy's got nothing, like he doesn't have a fucking prayer, not a pittance, not a scrap of life in him to spare, to give to this -- except that's not quite true, except Charlie’s coming hard, fast, messy and hot and the stranger is working him through the last of it, tonguing into his mouth at the cut in his lip and kissing him, devouring him like he hasn’t known in far too long.

Charlie’s lost in a haze for a second that lasts a good long while; he’s pressed loose into the man next to him, who’s sprawled there, sucking at the sweat, the callouses on his fingers, biting on the knuckles until the tape loses grip, until there's no fate in this except what happens, no intent expect what comes, and none of it's written, they're not meant for this, and Charlie doesn't read what's set in stone, because it lies, because nothing's that permanent, not a goddamn thing is made to hold.

“I meant me,” the man tells him, murmurs in undertones, in the sticky flesh of Charlie’s collarbone -- the end and beginning of the song that he sings; “My name is Richard.”

It means something more than Charlie can grasp hold of -- and maybe that’s the point of it all, maybe that’s what they get when things come apart and the innards spill out.

They’re both quiet, and Charlie’s bone-fuckin’ tired, and he can’t be sure of what’s real and what isn’t, what stanzas are sung in the world or his head, but his heart beats fast and furious and then slow and sluggish to its own rogue beat, and there are hands, gentle and true on his skin, all over -- up and down the lengths of his arms, dancing, shivering, and Charlie tenses and eases with every pass they make, because he’s dragged the tip of Liam’s needles over that skin, he’s sobbed and gasped and hated himself for the lines he can imagine there, just like his big brother, just like that. There are hands, then, that settle, hard and heavy at the middle of his chest, counting the measures, speaking something fierce.

“A day is going to come, Charlie,” and Charlie’s own hand doesn’t listen, doesn’t wait for a command, just comes to cover Richard’s where it sits above the muscle, the music, and Richard doesn’t finish the thought, doesn’t specify the when, because there are givens in this world that don’t need stone to settle in, a stake to claim, and Charlie understands. This is one of them.

“Play your heart out,” Richard speaks to the rhythm, just a half-step out of sync. “Play your heart out every time.”

Charlie drifts off, slips the rest of the way down, and he knows Richard will be gone come morning.

He doesn’t have it in him to fight; he knows that even the best tracks come to a close.
________________________________

Liam overdoses the next night, s’half dead by the time they get him to hospital; they cancel the last five dates on the tour, spend the days at his bedside and arranging rehab.

Charlie smells the stranger, smells Richard on his skin, on his clothes -- he doesn’t have time to change, with Liam, with everything -- for hours, for days after he’s gone, and Charlie wonders -- he wonders about days. Wonders when they’ll come.

And his heart’s a drum in the middle of his fucking chest, and he bites at his lip at the ghost, the specter left behind in the shape of a hand, the pressure of the world and gravity and hope and hate upon his ribs; his heart’s a drum in the middle of his chest, and he can taste blood on his tongue and fear in his pulse, and he only knows one thing as he settles a palm of his own above the beat.

Until the song gives out, until there’s no time left: he’s gonna play it like he’s meant to, like there’s no goddamned tomorrow.

between the lines (mind the gap) for irishunicorn03

2011-12-24T09:19:00Z

Title: Between the lines (mind the gap)
Author: maddie508
Recipient: irishunicorn03
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for all of Lost
Summary: Claire and Kate, before and after their reunion.
Author notes: Tried to combine as many prompts as I could. Hope the

Prompts used:
1) Claire: slowly going crazy on the island.
2) Claire: raising Aaron (with or w/o Kate)
4) Kate: on the run (sort of)

Claire looks down at her hands, torn and bloody, then back to her lopsided hut. It looks like it might topple in the next gust of wind.

She knows she should probably be curious, or worried, or hopeless, but the only thing she feels is fury.

They left her, all of them. There is no trace, no hint of what had happened or where they had gone. When she found herself wandering in the jungle with no memory of how she’d gotten there she’d gone back to the barracks only to find them deserted. Four days later she tried the beach.

She had been sure that someone would turn up. That Jack or Kate or Sawyer would come tumbling out the woods to half-explain what the current plan was. She’d gotten used to being kept out of most of what went down on the island, she really didn’t care anymore, all she wanted was for one of them to show up so she could find out where to go and who had Aaron.

She stayed there for two weeks, getting hungrier and angrier each day, before he showed up. First he was wearing her father, then Boone, then Charlie, but it was always the same man. He told her they had abandoned her, that they were never coming back. He told her that she had to move from the beach camp because it wasn’t safe anymore, that the people who had stolen Aaron were coming back. He told her she had to set everything up, that she had to get ready. And then he left too

He left her to stumble through all the tasks the other survivors had done around her for months. All the jobs that they had spared here, because she was the poor pregnant girl. She’d thought then that it had been a kindness, but now she only feels cheated.

She learns, slowly. Her world narrows and her spectrum broadens. She sees the different angles of the leaves where someone or something brushed by. She sees the patterns the storms make and learns to predict them. She sees maps of the Dharma stations traced on the inside of her eyelids.

And if she sees a few things that aren’t really there, well, it isn’t like there is anyone around to blame her.

Kate sits in the parking lot of the drug store, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The heat beating down through the windows is brutal, but she knows that isn’t what is making it so hard for her to breathe. She knows it isn’t the seat belt across her chest that’s making her claustrophobic. She bites her lip and thinks about Jack, about her probation officer, about the look on the marshal’s face when he finally got her in cuffs. Remembering that plane ride, having to hide her wrists and listen to his sneered comments, still makes her stomach clench and a whispered ‘bastard’ escapes her lips before she remembers about not speaking ill of the dead.

She knows what she wants to do and she knows how this little struggle is going to play out. Eventually drumming her fingers stops working. She stretches and leans her head back, knowing what she can’t do, what almost every instinct she has is fighting towards. For a minute she thinks about bumming a cigarette off the guy sitting on the guardrail, just to have something to do with herself.

She’d tried smoking when she was seventeen, when she first started leaving home for a few days at a time to get away from Wayne and realized life was easier if people left her alone. Whether it made her look older or let her blend into the background or just made her seem like the ‘kind of person’ you should avoid, she wasn’t sure. All that mattered was that people asked her fewer questions and looked her way less often. It all worked well until she realized it was making her slower. It was Tom that caught her, after she grabbed his biology notes, called him a nerd and bolted. He smiled and laughed as he caught her around the waist but it still made her break out in a cold, panicked sweat- no one had ever out-run her before. She’d quit immediately, without a second thought.

So instead she goes into the drug store to buy what she’s be avoiding. She’s itching to floor the gas pedal on her way back but the mantra of under the radar, under the radar, under the radar won’t let her.

Through the front door and straight into the bathroom, trying not to look at the furniture or the pictures on the walls, opening the box as she goes, wishing her heart would beat slower. As she slips on the cheap plastic gloves, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. And she’s smiling.

But then the alarm on her phone goes off and that’s it; she drops everything before walking blindly back toward the door.

She can’t help smiling when she picks Aaron up from day care. It will get better, she tells herself, for the thousandth time. But the pressure that is threatening to crush her lungs and smother her heart doesn’t seem to let up as they head back to the car.

She buys 23 boxes of hair dye in that year, every color from platinum blonde to black stacked in the bathroom closet, but she never uses any of them.

Kate finishes putting Aaron to bed, cleans up the crayons strewn across the table and flops down on the sofa to watch tv. In less than twenty minutes she’s incapable of focusing on either the show or the storm outside. It’s making her anxious. She hates this now familiar feeling, the awareness that she’s walking that fine line between contentment and claustrophobia.

Two restless glasses of wine later Kate hears the door creak open and turns to see Claire standing, dripping wet, in the door frame.

‘No go on the date, huh?’

Claire makes a sound halfway between laugh and a moan. ‘He seemed nice enough,’ she says with a small smile though her tone made clear that that is the furthest thing from making a difference.

Kate feels the wry smile twisting her lips and prompts, ‘…but?’

‘On the way into the restaurant, I just,’ she moves over to the couch and sinks down, ‘I stopped. In the rain. And just… stood there.’ She turns so they are sitting face to face and Kate might have mistaken her expression as miserable, if she’d been able to convince herself that Claire still cared that much about this kind of thing. ‘He kept trying to give me the umbrella and… I don’t know I, just couldn’t go in there.’ She stares out the window again, pressing her palms slowly against one another. ‘He was nice about it, though,’

Kate watches Claire until the other woman looks up to meet her gaze. There’s a momentary flash of aggression there, like for a split second she had the impulse to defend what she did and tell the whole world that they could fuck off. But then the light shifts, the flash dims and her eyes are back to their usual icy blue.

‘Is Aaron down?’

‘Yup,’ Kate reaches out a hand and tugs the younger woman off the couch before leading her silently to open the front door. She sticks one arm through the door and, keeping her eyes on the grass outside, says, ‘It’s nice.’

They sit on the porch steps, letting the summer rain pound down on them for at least an hour. Rain always makes Claire think of the island. Each pinprick drop on the skin helps obliterate the picture of where she is and why; she almost believes that if she stood in the rain with her eyes closed longer enough, she could open them and be anywhere.

Long after the water starts to run in rivulets down the back of her neck, Claire stands and wraps an arm around Kate’s waist to pull her up. Kate’s shirt, plastered to he back, twists and rides up. Kate laughs as she sways on legs that had been most of the way to falling asleep and Claire’s fingers brush against the long scar that twists from above Kate’s hip around to the middle of her back.

It’s funny, Claire thinks, the marks the island left on us.

The two of them never took Aaron on vacations anywhere warm. They avoided beaches on principle unless they were covered in round stones or completely devoid of palm trees. And neither of them ever seems to react the ‘right’ way to playground scrapes and scuffles. They carry creams and bandages in their purses just like the other moms, but their comfort levels with blood and bruises are still clearly out of the ordinary.

Claire looks at the minute raindrops that had scattered on Kate’s lashes, they were standing so close she could have tried to count them if it didn’t look about as hopeless as counting her freckles. Yeah, she thinks, there’s ore than a little out of the ordinary in this house. And that poor, nice, ordinary guy never really had a chance.

Claire wraps her arm further around Kate; pressing stomachs, breasts and thighs together before kissing her. It’s dominant and possessive and still feels like a surprise habit every time. It’s the least probable thing she could have imagined… but she doubtless should have learned to expect that by now.

It’s been two years since the last time she saw him but there he is, sipping a beer that might as well be in a Dharma can for all that his face had changed.

‘So, you and the little momma still playin’ house?’ His smirk makes it damn clear that the real question is the one only being hinted at.

Kate takes a sip of her beer before answering, straight-forward and like it’s too obvious to be a charged question, ‘Yup.’

‘Well hot damn, isn’t that nice’. She looks up to catch a grin that is all bamboo shoots and salt spray, and a lopsided smile tugs at her mouth like a half remembered instinct.

‘And what about you guys?’ She can’t see a muscle move in his face, but suddenly his smile is completely different, it’s the one she never saw on the island. He pulls out his wallet to show her the latest picture of Clementine, this time in a soccer

‘Do you ever think about telling them…’ she hesitates, not sure which impossible thing to fill the rest of the sentence with.

‘What,’ his drawl hangs on that first syllable for a moment before breaking into a short bark of a laugh, ‘that we all went time traveling on a mystical, disappearing island? That we killed Others and other Others, and were always on the run from a smoke monster?’ No, freckles, as far as Clementine is ever going to know, I lived in a palm leaf hut, ate mangoes and went fishing.’

When he’s in fifth grade Aaron starts reading The Golden Compass. All his friends read it and their parents didn’t mind, so he knows they wouldn’t call it ‘inappropriate’ or something else annoying like that, but when he sees the polar bear on the cover he realized it might be better to keep it to himself (they always got weird around the polar bears at the zoo). So he reads it at night, after his bed time, with a book light he palmed off the display at a bookshop (he didn’t have to steal it, he’d had the dollar-fifty, he just wanted to see if he could).

He’d never liked books about dragons or elves or magic, always preferring stories about street-urchin that lived by their wits. Maybe it had something to do with the way she used to read them to him when he was little, the way she made the chases sound so exciting and how they used to look at each other in relief after each escape.

But he likes this one. The parallel worlds didn’t seem too ridiculous, not like wizard schools or troll kings, and he really liked Lyra and Lee Scoresby. They were the kind of characters that felt like people he’d known his whole life. He didn’t even mind the talking bears. It was all something he could almost believe, like the shooting stars his mom said you could see if you squint just right.

But the second book seemed a little too real. The boy realizing his home isn’t the same as other people’s. The mother who was afraid of strangers and spoke of ‘bad men’ (they only ever said things like that in their sleep, but that didn’t mean Aaron didn’t hear). And the scariest part was that the things he had once thought were all in his mom’s mind, the things that had seemed impossible, wound up being true.

No matter how nervous that part made him, or maybe because of how nervous it made him, Aaron felt like he had to finish the series.

And when he finds an abandoned library card in the hallway at school he pockets it and uses it to check out the books before tossing it in the trash. He hides the books behind a loose panel in the heating vents in his room. He pulls them down when mind feels like its racing too fast for him to stay still, and whenever he overhears something he knows he wasn’t meant to. They stay there for the next seven years but never grow dusty.

cat and mouse for fosfomifira

2011-12-23T14:11:47Z

Title: Cat and Mouse
Author: gottalovev
Recipient: fosfomifira
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: Sawyer knows he should not do this. (Sawyer/Kevin)
Author notes: I took liberties in the interpretation of fosfomifira's request, and I sure hope she likes the fic anyway. Merry Christmas! Many thank yous to my dear friend for reading it over for me and to the lostsquee mods for organizing this wonderful fest ♥

(3)

Sawyer knows he should not do this. That it's a very very bad idea.

But he wants to. Playing with a cop is fun.

He's got a feeling that playing with Kevin? Will be exhilarating.

(1)

Kevin had almost caught him with a hand in the metaphorical cookie jar when they had first met. Sawyer had been questioned as a person of interest in an embezzlement case, but fortunately the cops didn't have much of a lead at the time and were just nosing around. It was adrenaline-filled moments like that which that made his life so exciting, and Sawyer had managed to dodge suspicion, taking Kevin's business card with a smile and a promise to call if he had more information.

Sawyer had left Miami that night, before being officially linked to the case, and that should have been it. But for some reason he'd kept the card, forgotten behind a picture of kids cut from a catalog just in case he had to play the part of a doting dad.

(9)

Sneaking out of a one night stand's bed when they're still asleep, sated, is - in Sawyer’s opinion - doing everyone a favor. It's less trouble, and there's no disappointment if one person would have liked for things to turn into something more. Sawyer doesn't know why he leaves a note on the nightstand; it feels right with this guy, somehow.

It's not you - you were fantastic - it's me, you know the drill.

Take care OK?

James

(trust me, it's better this way)

Leaving without turning back is surprisingly difficult.

(2)

Sawyer's eating a sandwich when his spidey sense starts tingling. After a quick look around the sandwich shack he spots a man watching him from two tables away, brows furrowed, his own lunch all but forgotten for the moment.

He never forgets a pretty face, especially not a cop, so Sawyer immediately recognizes the detective that interrogated him on his last job here in Miami, ten months ago at least. Caught staring, the cop - his name is Kevin, Sawyer remembers - surprisingly ducks his head before throwing him a little smile. It's adorable and Sawyer cannot help a smile back, to which the guy actually blushes. Oh, but this could be all kinds of interesting. Sawyer should leave it at that, cut ties and run again since he's not been recognized back, but he's never been good at impulse control.

(10)

He’s looking for a stray twenty in his wallet to pay for his hour of self-service internet when he spots Kevin’s card. It’s like a conspiracy, these days: Sawyer keeps noticing little things that make him go back to Miami, at least in thoughts. Being distracted by uniforms would be bad enough, but it’s gentle smiles and sparkly blue eyes, too.

The business card states Kevin’s status and coordinates at the police station, including his email, and it proves too hard to resist. Sawyer finds a free e-card provider, selects the ugliest one he can find because it’s hilarious in a blinding kind of way, and he sends it before reason gets a hold of him.

Wish you were here. J.

(4)

Stopping by Kevin's table, Sawyer takes a smoke out before tapping it on the pack. He won't lie, the adrenaline is high. He looks sideways at Kevin and smiles when their eyes meet.

"Hey," he says as an opening, and it works like a charm.

"Hi," Kevin answers with a disarming smile.

"I'm new 'round these parts and I was wondering if you could help me out?" Sawyer asks.

"Sure," Kevin says, eager to please. "What are you looking for?"

Sawyer itches to light his cigarette, but a crotchety little lady is glaring at him from one table over, as if daring him to try while still in a no smoking zone. He puts the stick behind his ear instead.

"Is there a nice night club around here?"

Kevin nods. "Sure, yes, most big hotels have their own club and there's Washington and Collins Avenue among other spots. Looking for anything in particular?"

"Nothing too big, you know? I'd like something more intimate," Sawyer says, posing with as much flirty body language as he can.

"The Luna is pretty nice," Kevin says. "They often have live music, too."

"Great!'' Sawyer says and starts to walk backwards, making his exit. It's time for the bait: "I'll go check it out tonight. Thanks for the tip!"

"My pleasure," Kevin says and Sawyer turns, feeling eyes drilling in his back until he gets to the street and out of sight. Oh yeah, he's got a bite, of that he's pretty sure.

(11)

It’s easy enough to find out Kevin’s work schedule by calling the station; Diane, the lovely receptionist, is helpful that way. It takes a couple more days before Sawyer finally caves and actually calls him.

“Detective Callis speaking.”

“Hi Kev,” Sawyer says, and he doesn’t understand why he’s so nervous.

“Hi!”

“So, how’s Miami?” Sawyer asks.

Sure enough, Kevin sounds confused next. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

Sawyer chuckles. “You can’t place my voice? I don’t blame ya, we didn’t talk all that much last time.”

“James? Kevin asks and Sawyer is honestly surprised. The man must have a great auditory memory or Sawyer’s accent betrayed him. Being recognized is also very flattering, in a way. It means he made an impression, even if maybe not the greatest one.

“Yeah. Sorry about the slipping out and the note, I’m a dick sometimes,” he apologizes.

“Pretty much. Where are you?” Kevin asks.

“Detroit,” Sawyer says, shifting from the pay phone a bit to look at the flight departure board; the answer will be true for another 45 minutes or so. “So, you never answered. How’s Miami?”

After a moment of hesitation where Sawyer thinks there are eighty percent chances the line will cut, Kevin starts talking as if they’re long lost friends getting back in touch. The tension in Sawyer’s neck inexplicably eases.

(5)

The crowd at The Luna is an eclectic mix of jeans, mini skirts and five thousand dollars suits. Frat bros drink next to businessmen with their ties loosened, but everyone seems to be having a good time. Sawyer whistles loudly when the current song ends, amused by the fact that the classic blues covers the band is playing are older than they are. Maybe older than all their ages combined.

A cold beer presses on his arm and stays there; Sawyer turns to scowl but it's Kevin, who offers him the beer with a raised eyebrow. Sawyer takes it with a smile and they clink the glass necks together.

"Hi there! Thanks!" Sawyer says. "Great suggestion by the way."

Kevin practically beams. "My pleasure, I'm glad you like it. Name's Kevin," he says, offering his hand to shake.

"James," he answers and it's only practice that prevents Sawyer from freezing at saying his real name. He never uses it and has no idea what got into him to say it now.

"Nice to meet you, James. So, are you in town for long?"

(12)

Postcards are fun to send, too. He likes mix-matching the places they represent with the town he's in when he mails them at Kevin’s attention. Nothing complements Anchorage quite like a postal stamp from New Orleans.

When Sawyer finds half a dozen unwritten European postcards tucked in a secondhand book, it feels like Christmas.

You know what really stayed with me from Prague? The frigging doors, man. They have really great doors. That and the beer.

It’s true, too. It turns out that he has yet to tell Kevin a lie since he left.

(6)

"I'm going for a smoke," Sawyer tells Kevin.

They’ve talked for an hour or so, with their head bowed together and constant almost-accidental touches, and his new favorite cop had turned out to be earnest and surprisingly funny, in a self-derisive sort of way. To counterbalance the sweetness, he's not shying away from the flirting at all and they both know where this is heading.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Kevin asks.

"Not at all," Sawyer says with a grin and then leads the way to the door.

The cooler evening air and the relative silence, save from a little group of laughing girls, is a welcome contrast to the stifling and extremely loud night club. Sawyer leans against the building and lights up a cigarette before turning to Kevin and extending his pack. Kevin makes a face.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke."

Sawyer shrugs and winks. "Good for you."

He takes a long drag, relishing the hit of nicotine, and blows it out slowly. Kevin is observing him so intently that Sawyer feels like prey for the first time in forever. He likes it. When the three girls who were taking a break next to them go back in the club and leave them alone in the alley, the air between them crackles with anticipation. His cigarette is only half smoked, but Sawyer stubs it out anyway.

"You wanna go back in?" he asks, but Kevin's closing in on him. He stops six inches away.

"Not really, no."

(13)

Some nights when he feels particularly melancholic, Sawyer longs for a meaningful human connection, if only for once in his life. The irony that he could probably build it with a cop with a heart of gold doesn't escape him.

Sawyer's leaving San Francisco tomorrow, job done and his pockets full. He doesn't plan on coming back to California for a little while, so he decides to use the complimentary hotel stationary this time. It's classy, ivory and embossed, and even if Kevin has the place investigated when he gets the letter, Sawyer will be long gone.

"Dear Kevin,

Have I ever told you I used to be pretty good at skateboarding? I was driving around Frisco today and I saw kids on those wicked long boards, it looked cool as hell..."

(7)

The kiss is forceful, hungry, and Sawyer loves the breadth of Kevin’s shoulders, solid under his hands. This very afternoon he'd have expected shy kisses but Kevin goes all in, kissing him dirtily. Sawyer loves being wrong sometimes.

"God, your mouth," Kevin pants as he breaks the kiss for air. "I've wanted to do this since the restaurant."

Sawyer chuckles. "Open invitation anytime, hoss," he says.

Speaking of mouth, there are other things Sawyer could get on board with. He scopes the surroundings and pushes Kevin away. He looks confused and disappointed, as if Sawyer’s planning to stop now.

"Come on," he encourages, as he slithers out of between Kevin and the wall, grabbing Kevin’s belt loop.

He's guiding him further in the alley, where a minivan is parked. It will be enough cover for what he has in mind.

"Where..." Kevin starts but Sawyer positions him against the wall at his turn, and he’s mostly hidden from the bar and the street beyond.

"Right here," Sawyer says as he starts to open Kevin's belt.

"Whoa," Kevin says, his eyes huge. "Come on, James, maybe we should take this..."

But Sawyer doesn't want to hear about it. He's got Kevin's slacks opened and a hand in his boxers: Kevin’s hard already, and he groans at Sawyer’s touch.

"Right here, right now," Sawyer whispers in his ear. "D’you think you can keep quiet?"

With that, Sawyer drops to his knees.

(14)

He’s trying not to call or to write in a predictable pattern. For one, he likes surprising Kevin, but Sawyer also needs to pace himself because he’s enjoying this way too much. The kicker is that it’s not about baiting a cop anymore, if it ever was since that night in Miami.

“’Lo?” Kevin sounds more than half asleep and Sawyer would feel bad if it wasn’t so cute. He forgot to consider the difference in time zones.

“Did I wake you?” Sawyer asks.

There’s a moment of silence. “James? How... of course you have my home phone number.”

Sawyer smirks. Of course he does. “Yeah, it’s me, your friendly stalker.”

“Speaking of, let me tell you something, okay?” Kevin says. “It’s not fair. There, I said it.”

“What’s not fair?” Sawyer asks, confused.

“I can’t write you back. I can’t call you because you use those darn untraceable phones and go though them as if they’re for single use only. And it’s not fair,” Kevin declares.

“You’d want that?” Sawyer is honestly surprised. Kevin never hung up on him and mostly sounds amused when they talk, but to want to contact him back means he likes it...

“And it’s not to arrest you, I swear.”

Sawyer freezes. He had a feeling this would happen sooner or later.

“Arrest me, huh?” he jokes, playing it cool.

“James ‘Sawyer’ Ford, right? It took me a while, but I knew I’d seen you somewhere before,” Kevin says. The silence stretches. “I prefer the longer hair, as a FYI,” he adds.

It’s unexpected and Sawyer laughs as the tension breaks. “Okay, true, you’ve got me. You’re good.”

“Look, I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t give a fuck what you did or what you do. Which makes me really pathetic and my boss better never hear about it. But sometimes I’d like to, you know, contact you too.”

The worst thing is that Sawyer really wants to believe Kevin and it makes something warm up in his chest. He should cut all ties and run.

“I’ll think about it,” he hears himself saying.

(8)

"Oh, god, James!" Kevin whispers. "Anyone could see!"

It figures that this kind of detail could bother an officer of the law. On the other hand, there’s no denying that the thrill of maybe getting caught adds a little something, too.

"Yeah they could. Want to give them a show?" Sawyer asks with a wink.

Without further preamble, he licks the head of Kevin's cock before sucking it into his mouth. Kevin makes a strangled sound and bites down on his own hand to avoid making more.

Sawyer always had an exhibitionist streak, and frankly this is not the most public place he's had sex. Nonetheless, there’s something special for him in this, too. Maybe it's because he’s thought about it all day. Maybe it's because he's sucking a policeman’s dick. Maybe it's because, from the little he just learned, Kevin is a good guy and he sort of likes him. Also maybe it’s because he wants to rock Kevin's world and have his rocked in return.

(15)

Kevin's grandma left him a small but well kept house in a neighborhood that has seen better days. There are no flower beds but some well-trimmed hedges, and Sawyer sees that Kevin did repaint the door blue as he'd been thinking about. He always fills his emails with weird little normal things like that.

There's a garage in the back and Sawyer can hear clanking from under a mid-sized blue car. The sight of Kevin's strong thighs in dirty jeans derails Sawyer’s thoughts to the gutter and it's a shock to realize that over the months they've been communicating, Sawyer has kept it clean, no innuendo. What are they to each other, anyway? Friends? Maybe Sawyer should not have come back. Maybe he should have come back sooner.

Once by the car, Sawyer nudges Kevin's shin with the tip of his cowboy boot. There's a surprised yelp and a clang that make Sawyer wince in sympathy.

"Ow, dammit!" comes from under the car and Sawyer wonders if there’s still time to run. "I could have had a heart attack -" Kevin is saying while rolling from under the car on one of those thingies on wheels mechanics use.

Right about now, Sawyer has the worst case of nerves ever. It lasts until Kevin is able to see his face and grins so wide that his joy can’t be fake. Sawyer smiles back, a bit helpless.

"Hi. I was in the neighborhood," he says with a casual shrug.

"It's about time," Kevin replies.

the ice axe, for ciaimpala

2011-12-23T14:02:59Z

Title: The Ice-Axe
Author: eponine119
Recipient: ciaimpala
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: A reunion in a bookshop.
Author notes: Thanks to A. for the beta

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul. ~Franz Kafka

They met again on the sidewalk outside a bookstore. Snow was coming down hard, the wind blowing it diagonally, allowing it to creep underneath collars and sting into eyes. Both men walked with their heads down, due to the weather, and practically collided.

"Hey, look where you're going."

Jack felt an embarrassed heat flush through his skin, along with a frisson of excitement. He'd recognize that growly twang anywhere. He stopped and raised his head. The other man brushed by him, yanking open the door to the bookstore. "Sawyer."

He watched the recognition set in, and then Sawyer looked at him with that old, familiar animalistic fire in his eyes. "I don't go by that name no more," he said, and for a moment that was almost the end of it. Jack would take a step back and bypass the bookshop, and they would go their separate ways. But then Sawyer added, "Doc," and held the door open to him, an invitation to follow.

The store was warm enough to begin to thaw the ice glistening on their skin and hair. Jack shivered deliciously in the unexpected heat. The shop was small and cozy, the shelves dark against the walls and overbrimming with books. Sawyer shook his head, setting his hair swinging like a dog casting off water, and Jack passed his hand over his own short bristles. Looking back outside through the windows, the snow lost its viciousness. It fluttered softly, illuminated by the streetlight, settling into white drifts, hiding the ugly details. Everything became still and quiet.

The exact opposite of the island in their past, sunny and hot and so often loud with shouting.

"Long time," Sawyer said.

"Very long." Jack felt awkward in his agreement. He should have more to say. But they were just two men looking at the snow. He let out a slow breath, relaxing, and beside him he could feel that Sawyer did the same.

"What are you looking for?" Sawyer asked.

It took Jack by surprise. He tried to form an answer to what he'd taken to be an existential question, opening his mouth and then shaking his head.

"What kind of book?" Sawyer clarified.

He felt a pang of embarrassment at his misunderstanding. "I'm not really sure. A gift, maybe something about entertaining."

"For your --?" He let the question hang, as though unwilling to complete the thought, to say the word "wife".

"Mother," Jack specified.

"Sure," Sawyer said. "Come on back, we'll see what we've got." He paused at the counter to remove his jacket. He stretched out a hand suggestively and Jack shrugged out of his coat, handing it to him. Sawyer looked good in a casual dress shirt and slim jeans. "Your mother make you that sweater?" He ribbed Jack good-naturedly. Some things never changed.

"No. Do you work here?" He hesitated before following Sawyer further into the store.

"Yeah." A slow grin spread across his face.

Jack wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He'd seen Sawyer with a book in his hand often enough that it seemed a natural progression, but it also seemed too tame for the adventurous bad boy he'd once known. "Do you like it?" He'd known since he was a kid that he would be a doctor. He couldn't imagine having the wide world of professions open to him, to choose from.

"Yeah," Sawyer said and this time it seemed like an admission. A confession. He covered it up quickly by indicating a low shelf with the toe of his boot. "These are what we've got on entertaining." He bent to retrieve a particularly heavy coffee table edition. "I think she'd like this one."

Jack wanted to take offense at the presumption, since Sawyer didn't know the first thing about his mother, but when he accepted the weight of the book into his hands, he could tell just from the cover that it was the right choice. He flipped through it perfunctorily, feeling the glossy weight of the paper and glancing at the price on the inside of the flap. "I'll take it."

Sawyer ducked his head in a nod, then fixed Jack with an intense gaze. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Jack asked.

"You need something."

There were plenty of things Jack needed, but he didn't think he'd find any of them between the pages of a book. Then again, a book had led him here, to find Sawyer again.

He followed Sawyer up to the front of the store and set the book down on the counter, reaching for his wallet. Instead, Sawyer walked over to the door and turned the closed sign so that it faced out. "Turnin' into a blizzard out there." He grinned, showing those wicked dimples. His fingers deftly turned the lock. This gesture made Jack no longer a customer; the store was closed. "Good thing we're in here."

"What is it you think I need?"

"You'll know it when you see it." Sawyer walked past him and the counter again, into back part of the store. There was a real fireplace with a fire burning in it. Jack didn't think he'd ever seen a store with a fireplace before. It was wonderful, the scent of the wood and the small crackles and pops as the fire flared and breathed like a living thing. Two worn chairs angled in front of it, and Jack sank into one with an involuntary sigh.

He stared into the fire, finding himself relaxed and mesmerized by the dancing flame. Sawyer pressed a mug into his hand and took the other chair. Jack took a sip, and whiskey burned a trail of heat down his throat. Trust Sawyer to always have a secret stash. "Quite the setup you've got here."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

More questions flitted through Jack's mind – was this Sawyer's shop, was he the boss – but the answers seemed obvious enough that saying the words would have been extraneous. Similarly Sawyer didn't ask him anything about himself or what he had been up to. They just sat companionably by the fire, drinking. Jack turned his head and looked out the window at the drifting snow and thought nothing had ever been so perfect or so right.

"You figure out yet what you need?"

"Yes." And as Jack looked at Sawyer's hair shining in the glow of the fire, tasting the burn of whiskey on his lips, he could only think how lucky he was to have found it.

(end)

the hardest part, for maddie508

2011-12-22T16:45:53Z

Title: the hardest part
Author: sunsetdawn20
Recipient: maddie508
Pairing: Claire/Kate, (very minor reference to Clementine/Ji Yeon kindergarten crush)
Characters: Kate, Claire, Sayid, Hurley, Sawyer (minor appearances or mentioned: Jack, Juliet, Aaron, Charlie Hume, Clementine, Ji Yeon)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-canon character death mentioned
Summary: AU where they never went back to the island, 8 years after leaving Kate is still haunted by Claire’s memory

Prompts used:
- Favorite characters and/or pairings: Kate, Claire, Sawyer, Sayid, Hurley
- General prompts: 2) It's strange, the things you don't forget
- Specific prompts: 3) Any combination of Claire/Juliet/Kate: burn.
- Would like to see: 3) Making bad decisions, with or without good intentions.

The bar reminds Kate of a baseball cap, trainers, and a lightly packed backpack that still always felt heavy – never with regret, though. She mostly wears heels now and her hair is constantly straightened out, as if that could change anything. The barman has been eyeing her for a while with a quirk of his lips, as if to say he could get any female walking through the door if he wanted to, and it reminds Kate with a sharp pang of a thick accent and a nickname that keeps haunting her every time she looks into a mirror.

-------

“Quit mooning, Freckles,” Sawyer grins and reaches for another Dharma beer. “The Doc’s got a new jungle-buddy now, deal with it.”

Kate lets out a short, relieved chuckle as she looks into the distance where Jack is sitting in the soft sand with Juliet, but then Hurley shifts.

“Dude,” he says in a surprised tone. “I don’t think she’s watching Jack...”

Sawyer gives him a semi-annoyed who the hell dealt you cards in this kind of look but he still follows Hurley’s gaze to where Claire is sitting on the shore with Aaron. He lifts an eyebrow.

“Well, well, well,” his grin brightens even more. “Ain’t she full of surprises?”

“I’m still here and not deaf,” Kate scoffs in annoyance and tries to act innocent but she knows she’s been busted.

--------

“Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice pulls Kate out of her thoughts that are constantly trapped on that damn island.

“Fuck off,” she mutters, not even looking up, it’s the kind of bar where that kind of behaviour is so common it’s barely noticed. But the man doesn’t leave.

“Is that the way to greet an old friend?”

Only then does Kate recognize the voice and the accent. She looks up into Sayid’s amused eyes almost reluctantly. It’s one thing to have your thoughts always crash on the island over and over again, but another to be in the company of someone who shares that nightmare. Over the years she tried to stay away but it proved more difficult than she would have thought.

“Did Hurley call you?” Kate asks when Sayid sits down next to her. He looks at her with his wide, deep black eyes that have no business being so innocent, all things considered.

“He’s worried about you, Kate. We do not want another funeral any time soon.”

Kate flinches visibly at the reminder. She hadn’t seen Sayid for four years before Jack’s funeral last week and she almost forgot his tendency for saying the plain, cruel truth no matter what.

--------

“A runaway murderer is not exactly the best companion to a new mother and her baby,” Sayid says in that eerily calm voice of his, and Kate shivers despite the heat because it feels like he’s finally saying out loud what she’s been thinking for weeks, ever since she started getting close to Claire. She wishes she could deny this truth but she’s never been good at lying to herself.

“But...” Sayid continues and Kate’s heart almost stops at the flicker of hope she’s not quick enough to crush. “Everybody deserves a second chance.”

Kate watches Claire sitting with Hurley by the fire and after a short pause she asks:
“What about when you’ve lost count of how many chances you already used up?”

Sayid just smiles sadly at her. He knows exactly what she means.

---------

They don’t talk, they just sit there at the bar quietly, ordering one drink after the other. Well, Kate does and Sayid watches – he probably has his own ways of dealing with the ghosts that haunt him, and Kate knows it’s best not to ask. The barman is watching them suspiciously, most likely thinking they are lovers who are having an argument or a couple that has run out of things to say, or something equally ridiculous. Part of her wants to grab him and tell the whole story simply because saying it all out loud would make it feel less like a feverish nightmare. She longs to talk about Claire, even if it’s only to this random barman, longs to tell him that somewhere on a weird magic island there’s a beautiful girl who once loved Kate like no one had ever loved her before or ever since.

-------

Claire’s mouth tastes of mangoes and for a moment Kate feels anger that even this moment should be violated by the island, but then the emotion fades and gives place to gratitude – if it hadn’t been for the island, she would never have met Claire. Kate pulls back first, nervous, unsure of how Claire will react, even though Claire had been the one to initiate the kiss, but the younger woman is smiling brightly.

“I didn’t feel like waiting anymore for you to make a move,” she says and pushes a blonde lock behind her ear.

Kate laughs out of relief at her own stupid issues and for the first time since Wayne came into her life she finally feels like everything’s going to be ok.

----------

After an hour of not saying anything Sayid finally prepares to leave. He doesn’t really say it but Kate has the feeling he’s going to disappear for another four years or even more, she wishes she could decide if she feels relief or regret at the thought. If it had been to her she would have broken all contact with the others in a futile attempt at turning her back on all the pain of the past. But then along came Hurley and there was no arguing with him. He kept all of them together: Jack went to Hurley when guilt was eating away at him, Aaron and Charlie, Desmond’s kid, call him Uncle H, and he was the first to notice that there might be a bit of a kindergarten crush between Clementine and Ji Yeon, and apparently he even kept in touch with Sayid, even if he never quite manage to convince Sayid to stay put. Even after a week he seems to be twitching to leave and Kate knows better than to expect a goodbye.

“Did you ever think of going back?” Sayid asks unexpectedly, already on his way out. He’s watching Kate’s reaction closely.

“Why?” she says harshly. He smiles sadly and leaves without saying anything. Kate sighs into her drink. Truth is, not a single day goes by without the thought. Even after eight years she still goes to bed every night missing Claire’s warmth next to her in the too wide bed.

-------

Claire cries out into the dark, throwing her head back in ecstasy, moving in wild abandon against Kate’s fingers inside of her. Kate smirks and leaves small butterfly kisses on Claire’s soft skin. She moans involuntarily when Claire’s fingers tangle in her hair and she bites down around Claire’s navel, while increasing the pace of her fingers moving inside the other woman. When Claire comes it’s with a loud gasp and Kate’s name whispered with loving warmth.

All This Happened, More or Less, for krilymcc

2011-12-22T16:36:22Z

Title: All This Happened, More or Less
Author: tia_no_one
Recipient: krilymcc
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: There's a horizontal line across the top of his nose, and it makes James uneasy to look at, because, Jesus, it's just another sign that this is his kid, and once again, he has everything to lose.
Author notes: Prompts used: After the island, baby fic, angst

"And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep."
— Kurt Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse-Five)

Thing is, this date’s been looming over him for months now, and for just about as long, he’s been trying to figure out how to get out of it. James has always been been good at getting out of shit he don’t want to do, but he just don’t see any way around this.

Ain’t like he hadn’t tried. “You know, Jack could always take him,” he got in at one point. Course, Juliet was in early labor at the time, and he’d gotten the kind of glare that had the power to make his blood run cold for weeks.

The kid just had to schedule his driving test a week after Juliet’s due date, didn’t he?

“The baby could be late,” she’d pointed out, way back when.

Well, sure, but Juliet was just too damned conscientious to do anything like have the baby off-schedule, right?

He guesses it could be worse. Hell, he could be the one taking David to the DMV this morning. Instead, he'll be hanging out here, just him and his eight-day-old son for what, two hours? Three? What’s he supposed to do? Not like he can pop out a boob when the baby stats squalling.

OK, yeah, he’s been taking care of the baby the past eight days, changing him, rocking him, burping and wiping and soothing, but almost all of that's been with Juliet practically in arm's reach, and frankly, she's done all the so-called heavy lifting.

In the kitchen, David’s hunched over the drivers' manual; barely looks up when James fills up the coffeemaker, loosens the twist-tie on the bread wrapper, hauls out the carton of cruelty-free, cage-free eggs.

(He hadn’t remembered her as a bleeding-heart on the island, unless it was in the literal sense -- the shoot-a-man-straight-through-the-heart-at-a-hundred-yards sense. But that’s just a blip in the long list of changes this time around).

Anyway, not important right now. What's important is breakfast, and the fact that no chickens were treated unethically is just a bonus feature. Juliet’s been ravenous ever since the baby was born, he guesses it makes sense, seeing as she’s feeding another person from herself, weird as that seems.

“Gonna make your mom some breakfast, you want some?”

David grunts noncommittally. He’d never get away with that in front of Jules, that’s for damn sure. It’s been three years, and mostly they’ve hit cruising altitude, but it’s pretty clear to him that every now and then, it must occur to David how much of an invader James is (or, he admits to himself, maybe he's the one assigning himself that label. But that's too much to think about when he ain't had a good night's sleep in more than a week.)

Eggs are almost done when David clears his throat. “Mom can still take me today, right?”

He imagines suggesting David might wanna call Jack, but almost just as quickly envisions either a.) One of those long expressionless (hereditary) stares or, b.) David deciding to take him up on the idea, which would mean James has to deal with Jack’s smug face at his front door.

('Sides, he hadn't missed the nervousness in his stepson's voice.)

James clears his throat. “Sure is, Andretti."

--------

In the upstairs hallway, James hesitates in the same spot as always, a cluster of old photographs, mostly from David’s babyhood. Pausing, as usual, right at the picture of an impossibly young Juliet in a hospital gown. He stares at the tiny being in her arms, tying to reconcile this with the 5-foot-10-and-still-growing teenager downstairs. And with the tiny one he knows is in her arms right now, just on the other side of the door.

(How is this all supposed to work out OK?)

(Back in Dharma, he'd started to think it'd all work out OK, and guess what happened there.)

He swallows hard, Juliet's plate growing heavy in his left hand, and then he's nudging the door open with his foot.

As usual these days, Juliet's in the glider with Owen, staring down at his tiny gulping face. Her feet are up on the ottoman, her socks mismatched. One thing he still can't quite understand: how happy she always is to see him, and how it ain't got a damn thing to do with the fact that he's bringing her food.

"Oh, thank god, I'm starving."

Yeah, yeah, maybe he should just take himself down a notch or two.

Keeping the baby's head cradled at the inside of her right elbow, Juliet balances the plate on the arm of the glider, eating with her left hand like she's actually ambidextrous and was just keeping it a secret 'til now. He leans up again the wall, sipping his coffee, trying to pretend like he don't notice how naturally this all comes to her.

"David's up," he says, which isn't at all what he'd meant to say. "You don't gotta go, I mean, I can take him." Yeah, yeah, tuns out he would rather take David to the DMV than be left here.

The fork's halfway to her mouth when she pauses, staring at him, and her cheeks swell in the smallest of smiles. She puts the fork down, so quietly it don't even make a sound. "You'll be fine," she tells him.

"Well, maybe," he concedes. "But who's gonna get my back?"

Her smile evolves into an actual laugh. (He hadn't even gotten her to laugh at the dock that night. Although it'd been the closest he'd ever gotten before.) "Now where've I heard that before?"

James grins back at her, giving her a nice shot of dimples, 'cause who doesn't need that on this humid, gray summer morning?

But then. "When Clem had her kids -- " he begins without thinking, and Juliet jerks her head up toward his, alarmed.

(Thing is, that was a whole other life ago, those decades and decades without her, learning to be a father to his little girl, bein' the kid of granddad who wasn't afraid to climb into the treehouse even though he grumbled about it.)

Anyway, they don't exist no more, do they. He shakes his head at her, and she looks back down at her plate.

--------

From the upstairs window of Owen's new room, James watches them go.

David opens the passenger door for his mother, a complete gentleman when he wants to be, and Juliet eases herself down, still clearly uncomfortable. "You got yourself a good mama," he says to the baby in his arms, who spits up a little in response. James cleans him up as he listens to Juliet's Volvo back down the driveway, and now they're alone, and his heart-rate revs up.

(What would we have done with a baby? he once asked Kate. Well, whatever he's doing with one, he's doing it now.)

"You in for a couple rounds of poker, small fry?"

The baby stares up at him, going a little cross-eyed.

"Guess not."

(His grandkids used to make that face, when they were first born. 'Cept he ain’t even forty yet, this time around. His uncle gave him a stern talking-to when he was 19, he went into the police academy, and now he puts guys like... like... well, like him in jail.)

(You're not like that anymore, an imaginary Juliet tells him (and boy, does he ever know about imaginary Juliets. He spent more years talkin' to imaginary Juliets than he ever did, or has, to the real one).

He's still standing next to the changing table, a dirty baby wipe in his hand. Owen flails at him a little. James tosses the wipe into the diaper genie.

Does he need a nap? He ain't hungry, that's for sure. James experimentally lies him down in the bassinet, backs away slowly. Silence. That's a good sign.

Now what?

He inches forward, peeks over the edge. Owen looks at him. He looks back.

Aw, hell.

--------

Owen finally conks out in his bassinet, except after a couple hours, he starts wailing over the baby monitor. James rushes in like he's the damned cavalry, but all's he can do is change his diaper, jiggle him, pace. Juliet had explained about making up a bottle if he needed to, but that she'd rather he didn't. Apparently babies can get confused about the whole thing if they're too young, won't breastfeed anymore.

He don't see what's so confusing about that, not when there's a million other things to get confused about in this universe. Or the other one.

(He took Clementine for her driving test. She'd passed on the first try, even being so nervous about the parallel parking.)

"Come on, just a little bit longer," James tells him, rubbing his back in slow circles, but the baby just rocks against him angrily. There's a horizontal line across the top of his nose, and it makes James uneasy to look at, because, Jesus, it's just another sign that this is his kid, and once again, he has everything to lose.

--------

Down in the kitchen, he's got the baby in the carrier, trying to understand the damn formula instructions when all he can hear is furious sobs. Then David is bursting into the kitchen, racing up the stairs, and Juliet comes in after him, moving more slowly until she zeroes in on the baby, suddenly speeding up, hurrying to the kitchen island and grabbing him.

"Sorry, sorry, there was such a line." And then her shirt's halfway up and the baby's up against her while she just, you know, stands there in the kitchen.

James nods up toward the ceiling. "He pass, or what? Couldn't even tell."

Juliet rolls her eyes a little, rocking back and forth with the baby. "He passed. I assume he's calling everyone in the world as we speak."

"You should get the kid a damn cell phone already, Juliet."

"Probably now that he'll be driving on his own, I will." She eases down onto one of the counter stools. "You know if Jack had his way, he'd already have one."

The line is subtle most days, but then other times it's smacking them right in their faces, like now. Upstairs, that's Juliet's kid. In the kitchen here, this is their kid.

It's kinda like that other line they constantly cross, like a powered-down electric fence:

On the island, she clomped around in some shit-kicking steel-toed work boots. Here, her closet is lined with all these little pointy-toed high heels.

On the island, they were so goddamn careful. Here, she forgets to take her pill two days in a row, boom, Owen.

On the island, they talked about the future like it was as wispy and insubstantial as a cloud. Here, the future runs wide and deep; anything can happen.

And that's just the thing, anything can happen, can't it? He's lost everything before; hey, technically a couple times, in totally different ways. His mouth goes dry; he grips the edge of the counter.

Juliet's watching him closely, the kind of stare that used to make him unbelievably uneasy, once upon a time. Like back when he was in a cage, and her buddies had all the keys. She switches the baby to her other side, not even looking down. "This is real, you know."

He's nodding too many times. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Except she's shaking her head. "But that doesn't make everything else not real."

--------

After, he tells Juliet to go ahead, take a nap, everything's fine, honest. She looks ready to pass out, anyway. "I love you," she tells him at the door to their room.

"I love you back," he says, and yeah. Yeah, that feels real. He presses a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes, breathing her in, only she smells like milk, not at all like he's used to. On the island she smelled like Dharma shampoo and motor oil. Here she usually smells like some Clinique perfume she keeps on a bathroom shelf. (It was so fucking weird the first time he saw her expertly navigating through the DVR menu.)

Carrying Owen through the upstairs hallway, James stops when David's door flies open.

"Mom around?"

"Takin' a nap."

His forehead furrows. "She said I could borrow the car."

"Keys on the counter. You be careful. Remember what she told ya." No friends in the car for six months, pay attention to the road, no fooling with his iPod or the stereo unnecessarily, be home before nine. ("Jesus, Blondie, don't you want the kid to have any fun?" he'd teased her.)

"I will. Uh... hang on." David ducks back into his room for a second; James just stands there with the baby on his shoulder until David emerges, clutching a pastel-colored picture book. "My mom used to read this to me. I dunno, maybe Owen would like it."

James looks at the cover. Guess How Much I Love You. "Thanks," he tells David. "Means a lot."

David ducks his head. "Yeah, well. Uh. See you later."

Between David's room and Owen's, James slows down again. Looks at the photos on the wall again. Juliet in the hospital with David: The photo is washed-out, that crappy film quality of the early '90s, too many blacks and yellows. Her skin is pale, her eyes fatigue-ringed. What he never noticed before was how damn scared she looks, here.

"You don't get to leave," he tells the Juliet in the picture. "Not this time."

He settles down in Juliet's (OK, their) glider, with the baby's head in the crook of his elbow. Still feels awkward, but... a lifetime ago, he'd made a living out of pretending to be someone he wasn't. Nowadays, he knows there's no faking: He either is, or he isn't.

With his free hand, he struggles to get the book open, but eventually, he gets it.

James looks down at the first page. "You'll like this one," he tells his son. "It's about bunnies."

The Letter, for haldoor

2011-12-22T16:33:12Z

Title: The Letter
Author: fosfomifira
Recipient: haldoor
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: As days go by, Sawyer realizes that time waits for no man.
Author notes: My everlasting gratitude to both of my betas, you know who you are.

There's more gray than blond in beard now, more lines around his eyes on the rare occasions he smiles. Sawyer knows exactly how old he is, but it's just a reference, another piece of meaningless information in what seems to be a fairly meaningless life.

Every day feels like the one that came before, vague and uncertain and slow. It didn't use to be like this. Each day was full of promise – good and bad-. Uncertainty was welcome – either he had another day to live free or was getting closer and closer to prison or worse. Now emptiness seems to be all around him, finding new ways to remind him of who he used to be, but not a single clue of who he should turn into.

There's a birthday on the horizon and it's not his. For the past few years he didn't have to work that hard at forgetting the date. He was busy working, robbing some woman of her sense and her fortune. He was busy getting drunk, being wild and young and reckless in some dark, forgotten corner of the world. Those days are long gone and there's nothing to distract him from what's in front of him now.

*

Survival comes with its own set of rules. Some you can learn from watching a tv show, reading a book, maybe even taking a course if you're so inclined. Some you have to come up with on your own. The most important rule in Sawyer's book is simple: adapt to your environment. There's a catch, though. There's no going with the flow, not giving someone everything they want from you unless you're taking from them at a higher rate.

*

People said they wanted to hear his story, their stories. Sawyer was shuffled out of the spotlight and that's where he's chosen to remain until today. His way with words hasn't deserted him, even though these days no one knows which name he uses. No one but his parole officer, anyway.

*

There's a simple trick to hiding, Sawyer has found. You simply go to the most obvious place you can think of and live your live like an innocent dove, pure as driven snow. Not that there's been much snow in this part of the world lately. He certainly can't remember looking out of his childhood window and ever seeing any snow flakes coming down on Christmas day.

The owners of the house had no idea of what happened in their home, all those years ago. Someone did a very good job of washing walls and repainting ceilings before selling it not once but twice to unsuspecting families. Everybody else has done a very good job of forgetting the Ford family they once cared so much for. Sawyer doesn't blame them. He did the exact same thing. No one knows who he is, no one knows who he used to be. It's perfect.

The neighborhood isn't what it used to be. There aren't that many up and coming, hopeful families moving in. The people around him all seem polite, but they're all too busy working two jobs to welcome the newcomer. For that, and for the foreclosure that allowed him to buy up his childhood home, Sawyer is grateful.

The name on the deed says James Ford. After all these years it still feels strange, even if for a little while, back in that life that never felt real enough, back on the island, that's who he used to be. He's got time to get used to it. There's not a lot of money, there's not a lot of anything but time piling up on him, adding layers of fat where none used to be, desires changing, goals redefined.

*

It's hard enough to find a job when you're unqualified for anything legal. Having a criminal record only makes life more difficult than it already is. Connections are connections, though, and there's always the friend of a friend who owes somebody a favor. That's how Sawyer finds himself waking up at the crack of dawn five days a week, driving long and slow in his beat up car to meet others like him landscaping the gardens of the rich and blissfully ignorant. Of all the guys who started with him last summer, he's the only one still standing. His boss says he appreciates Sawyer's attention to detail, his way with clients. Some skills just never go away.

There are other ways to supplement his income, none of them quite illegal. He barely drinks these days, but working at a bar does have its own appeal. It's easy enough to lose himself in someones’ stories, size up all the priceless details of their lives they give away. In between a shot and a new martini, an entire plan of action can be drawn up, only to be discarded by the time some mid-level manager stumbles out of the door, to go home safely in the cab Sawyer called. Girls still try to impress him tying up cherry stems. It's not quite as impressive a trick as they like to think, but they're good at keeping loneliness at bay and Sawyer is not above taking what's freely offered and giving some pleasure in return.

*

Someone transformed his old bedroom into a library of sorts. There were no books when he moved in, but the shelves up against every wall remained. They're sturdy, built to withstand the weight of big, heavy books, like doctor's textbooks, like some former military man's personal memoirs and files. With his salary, Sawyer knows it's going to take him a long time to fill up the room, but he's got time. Adventure stories, classical novels and more recent fare, maps and more maps and short stories slowly cover up the walls.

Up against the only window in the room rests a small desk. It's just a cheap table, but it's big enough. Sunlight streams through all day long, soft and unobtrusive. The tree Sawyer remembers as nothing but sticks is now solid, full of low-hanging branches and thousands of leaves. No one can see him from the outside, not even the outline of a man bent over pieces of paper, his hand moving slowly over each page, stories forming.

There's a calendar hanging from one of the shelves. The picture shows a tropical beach. There are no dates circled, but Sawyer doesn't need any reminders. It's taken him some time to decide whether this was the right thing to do. The words are now waiting for him to pour out, his handwriting more careful and clear than it's ever been. One letter is already finished, the address on the envelope a very recent discovery. Some people are much too good at hiding for their own sake.

There's a birthday coming up, and for the first time ever Sawyer knows exactly what to say.

My dearest daughter, my beloved Clementine,

First Moves, for jaydblu

2011-12-21T16:32:47Z

Title: First Moves
Author: haldoor
Recipient: jaydblu
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nothing you haven't seen before; slight violence
Summary: A disagreement over Sawyer's stash leads to some interesting moves.
Author notes: The prompt I chose was 'exploring our differences' and the pairing was Jack/Sawyer. It's old school stuff, i.e. Season One when Boone was still around, although he's not the focus of this. No real plot beyond what was needed to make sex happen! Hope my recipient likes it!
Word Count: 3316

Sawyer dropped his eyes, and then lifted them again without raising his head, his smile sultry. He knew the effect he had on most people and he was quite prepared to exploit it.

"Well now, if it ain't the hero of the story; come to save the damsel in distress."

"Let him go," Jack said, stopping where he was and glaring at Sawyer, before giving Boone a reassuring look.

Sawyer widened his grin, noting the way Jack's nostrils flared slightly. The others gathered might not see, nor understand, but Sawyer knew exactly what was going on here. He looked down at Boone on the ground behind him, still wiping the blood off his nose with the back of a hand.

"I ain't stopping him from leaving."

"Boone." Jack nodded in Boone's direction, and then scowled back at Sawyer. "There was no reason to hit him. A simple 'no' would have done."

"Perhaps," Sawyer agreed, "but there's nothing like a little extra to emphasize the point. Might stop him asking again."

"Bastard," Boone muttered, his face flushed, as he got to his feet and circled around Sawyer to move past Jack and the rest of his minions.

Embarrassment would stop Boone asking again at the very least. What did he need with sleeping pills anyhow?

"Everyone can head back to the caves now," Jack said, his eyes never leaving Sawyer's.

Sawyer didn't blink, nor did his smile falter as the other survivors slowly filed away from around them. A warm breath of air stirred the nearby fire, illuminating the expression on Jack's face briefly. Seconds ticked by and the only sound Sawyer could hear was the susurration of the sea in the distance as the other survivors retreated.

"You want something else, Doc?"

Jack took a step forward at the question, glancing over his shoulder; to ensure they were alone, presumably.

Sawyer's smile grew feral. "Let me guess. You wanna explore our differences? Try and work out why I don't share well."

Jack huffed a laugh, and shook his head. "Why would I care?"

Sauntering forward to close the gap between them, Sawyer murmured, "Because you want what you don't have just as much as the next guy."

"I don't want what you have."

"Really?" Sawyer circled Jack, getting closer but not yet touching.

"Yes, really. If I wanted those pills, I'd get them."

"That why you're still here?" Sawyer whispered the words into Jack's ear. Jack hadn't moved as Sawyer closed in on him, but Sawyer was pleased to feel a shiver at the touch of his lips. Jack didn't speak yet, but Sawyer was convinced he had the man figured out.

"Tell you what." Sawyer kept his voice pitched low, still murmuring into Jack's ear. "I'll give you the sleeping pills if you stay here tonight. You might even get something else you want."

Jack was making a pretty good effort to remain unaffected, but Sawyer could hear the tremor in his voice as he replied, "Aren't you worried your reputation would suffer if I did that?"

"My reputation ain't exactly got much lower to go." Sawyer let his tongue touch Jack's earlobe; at the same time he ran his fingers lightly up Jack's bare forearm.

Jack took a breath and turned his head. Sawyer didn't shift. Their lips were less than an inch apart, and Sawyer couldn't focus on Jack's eyes clearly, but he could see the glitter in them from the firelight.

"Don't tell me you don't want it," Sawyer said, still soft and low, his breath warming Jack's mouth.

"That would be pointless." Jack's lips touched his with the words, and then, almost without there being a transition, they were kissing.

The kiss deepened as Sawyer moved to face Jack full-on, one hand fisting in Jack's t-shirt as the other sought his belt. Jack shoved his own hands inside Sawyer's loose shirt, heated palms skimming over Sawyer's skin as Jack's tongue dove deeper inside his mouth.

Sawyer's ears pounded as they drew back; fire ran though his veins, and the glimmer of animal lust in Jack's eyes goaded him on. Care and consideration went out the window as he pulled the shirt roughly over Jack's head and ditched it. Buttons popped from his own shirt as Jack tore it in his desperation to get rid of it.

Jack's body was paler than his own, but not by much, Sawyer found time to note as their mouths met again roughly; sweat and stains of the day rubbing and rolling down their bodies as they clutched at each other. Then Jack was shifting, biting at Sawyer's neck as his fingers strained to open Sawyer's jeans. Once the zipper was down, he pushed at them, blindly reaching to encase Sawyer's hot cock in a damp hand.

Sawyer hissed at the touch, need making him buck. He hadn't done anything like this in years – not since long before the island – and the primal urge to fuck swelled inside him as he fought the memory of last time: years ago, in prison. He shoved Jack backwards, letting himself be dragged down on top of Jack as he fell, echoing his grunt as they landed in the sand.

Scrabbling to stay on top as Jack tried to roll, Sawyer fought with the other man's pants, thrusting a hand inside when he was unable to unfasten them. Jack's hardness felt good in his hand, but what he really wanted was Jack naked and pliant under him. Heaving himself up, he attacked the jeans again, finally managing to part the button from its eye and drag the zipper down.

Jack stopped moving long enough for Sawyer to drag his pants down his legs and off; thankfully he had only been wearing flip-flops (where he'd found them was anyone's guess) and they'd disappeared as soon as Sawyer tripped him. Scrabbling to push his own jeans off, Sawyer smirked evilly when Jack reached to help him, glad he too was barefooted.

There was another scuffle and although Jack got a fist into Sawyer's side that made him grunt, he managed to maintain top dog position. There was blood at Jack's lip by the time he grinned down at the man, pinning Jack's hands above his head.

"You wanna make this as hard as possible, dontcha, Doc?" Sawyer spit out, then grinned. "Although, come to think of it, we both already are." He shifted over Jack, grinding their heated groins together. "How 'bout something slippery to ease the way?"

"No fucking," Jack hissed, writhing as if he could knock Sawyer off his body.

"Kidding me?" Sawyer scowled, searching Jack's eyes. "You started this, Slim. There's no way I ain't getting to the finish line now."

"Don't have to fuck to get off, Sawyer." Jack's eyes looked wild, and Sawyer wasn't sure if it was fear or anger in them.

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing, Doc. You give up to me now and I'll make sure you don't feel no pain."

Jack stopped struggling, though his chest still heaved with the effort he'd already spent. Sawyer leaned down, licking at the blood on Jack's lips and then plunging his tongue back into Jack's mouth. Jack didn't fight it, his wrists slackening under Sawyer's grip.

Sawyer let one hand go in order to cup Jack's jaw. He could feel the hand he’d released tighten in his hair and he moaned into Jack's mouth, letting go of Jack's other hand and relaxing into the kiss further before attempting to back off to get supplies.

Jack growled and pulled him back, sucking on his lips and tongue like that was enough. No way was it going to be enough for Sawyer though, and he ground his hips down hard, his cock digging low into Jack's belly before he managed to get loose from the man's hands.

Sawyer didn't waste time; waggling his eyebrows at Jack spread naked and needy on the sand, he backed towards his shelter, turning at the last moment to dive inside to fetch what they needed. Thank God he kept those kinds of things handy. But by the time he had a condom and lube in hand and turned to go outside again, Jack was shoving his way in under the tarp and wrapping a hand around the back of Sawyer's neck to drag him into another searing kiss.

It was too much to resist, and Sawyer pulled him down to the bedding, uncaring of the sand stuck to both of them as they rolled, picking up where they'd left off in the fight for dominance. Sawyer managed to get a hand around Jack's cock, and Jack hissed, his fingers biting into Sawyer's bicep as he bucked into the touch. Sawyer licked under one of Jack's ears as he eased him back on the blanket, reaching for the dropped lube while he had Jack distracted.

Still pumping Jack's cock harshly, Sawyer licked the spot again, flicking the top of the tube open one-handed as Jack shuddered under his tongue. Pleased with the way Jack's fingers were spasming against his muscle, he grinned, shifting to his knees to get the lube to where he needed it. He had to let go of Jack's dick to squeeze some of the liquid onto his fingers, and Jack gasped as he replaced his hand, colder and wetter, then groaned, low and dirty, as Sawyer stroked him more easily.

Sawyer liked the sound and the way Jack was sprawled out, all long, loose limbs and sweaty skin under him, but his own cock was feeling neglected. Time for the real action to start.

Nudging Jack's legs further apart with his knees, Sawyer kept up the steady stroking, insistent but not quite enough to finish Jack off, letting the fingers of his other hand slide down to Jack's balls. He fondled them gently, and then slipped a finger along his perineum, prodding at his asshole with the tip.

Jack swallowed noisily and his eyes flew open, but Sawyer wasn't about to stop. He let his lip curve up in a dirty smile, and pumped Jack's cock harder. Jack let out another gasp and as he did so, Sawyer pushed his finger just inside Jack's hole. Jack's breathing hitched and he looked like he was about to say something, but Sawyer slid his finger further into the delicious heat, finding Jack's sweet spot with ease, and whatever words he'd been going to say turned into the most erotic-sounding groan Sawyer had ever heard.

It made his cock pulse with need, and Sawyer had to bite his lip to suppress his own groan. He wished he'd put the condom on first; now he was going to have to abandon both cock and asshole in order to get it on. He hoped Jack wouldn't take flight while he did so; despite the way he'd reacted to the finger, Sawyer was sure he'd freak out given the chance.

"Keep still," he murmured, letting go of Jack's cock first and reaching for the packet. "Gimme a chance to get this on." Biting into it, he held Jack's eyes with his own, pulsing his finger over Jack's prostate.

Jack didn't move, to his credit; only the uneven rise and fall of his chest gave away how much he was enjoying the touch.

Sawyer knew he couldn't get the condom on single-handedly, and with a wet, sloppy sound, he quickly drew his finger out of Jack's body, hurrying to smooth the rubber over his dick. He kept flicking his eyes between what he was doing and Jack's eyes to ensure the guy didn't suddenly change his mind, but Jack just lay there, seemingly transfixed by the sight of Sawyer stroking his own cock.

The action made him shiver, he wanted this so bad. Sawyer hadn't expected any of this, but he sure as hell wasn't going to push it away now. It seemed far too good to be true, all the same; like he'd wake up suddenly and find it was all some kind of wet dream. It felt too real though.

Finally, the damned thing was covering him completely. Grabbing the lube again, Sawyer squeezed more out and spread it liberally over his sheathed cock, hissing at the chill of it. Knowing any witticisms were likely to make Jack run for it, Sawyer simply smirked and reached for Jack again. Shuffling closer, he wound his still-damp hand around the man's dick once more and slid the other hand back to his asshole, pushing two fingers straight inside without any preamble.

Jack's gasp this time was painful, and Sawyer slid the fingers backward some as Jack reached for and grabbed the wrist of the hand Sawyer had on his dick.

"S'okay, Doc," Sawyer whispered, shaking the man's hand off and stroking his cock more firmly. "Just relax. Listen; it's all good." He knew the cadence of his words was probably more important than what he actually said, and as Jack appeared to take his advice, he let out a breath, murmuring more in the same tone. "Now, ease up a little, push back at me when I do this, okay? It helps some."

Carefully, he pushed inwards again, smile widening as Jack obeyed him. "That's good. Feel better?"

Jack just nodded, hands digging into the bedding as Sawyer circled his fingers, easing the channel open further. Sawyer found his sweet spot again and Jack let out another wordless sound much like the previous one.

"Oh yeah," Sawyer breathed, "Now for the main event. Stay relaxed, Doc, and we'll all feel good soon."

Jack's apprehension was back, his eyes flitting between what Sawyer was doing and his face, but he was obviously still enjoying Sawyer's ministrations. Sawyer smiled again to reassure him, lifting his eyes to nod, and then looking back at where he was removing his fingers and shuffling further forward to line his cock up with the way home.

They both groaned as Sawyer's cock slid inside the heated hole. It was divine, Sawyer thought; so hot and tight, like it was designed just for him. Jack's fingers scrabbled for a hold on the blankets, and Sawyer held him by one hip, his other still loosely around Jack's cock. Jack softened a little as Sawyer pushed in deeper and the wince on his face made Sawyer stop.

"Okay there, Doc? Want me to stop?" He didn't really want to, but he wasn't about to carry on unless Jack was with him.

Jack took a couple of short, sharp breaths, and then swallowed hard. "No… don't… don't stop now."

Sawyer's lip quirked by itself and he nodded, waiting a moment more for Jack to adjust. Then slowly, he began to move further inside, until finally he could go no further. Circling his hips gently, he began to stroke Jack's cock again, his smile widening as it grew stiffer in his hand. "That's it."

"Move. You should… m-move."

"Okay." Despite how much he wanted this, Sawyer felt nervous now, and he took it slowly to start with, watching Jack's eyes as he moved, and continuing to stroke his cock in the hopes of relaxing him further.

He wasn't sure what he did differently, but suddenly Jack was making whimpering noises and rising up to meet him. It sent a spiral of lust right through Sawyer, and he abandoned Jack's cock in favor of gripping both hips and thrusting harder.

"OhGodohGodohGod…" Jack's words seemed to be caught on a loop as he rolled his hips into every movement Sawyer was making.

Jesus! Sawyer felt his breath catch and his balls tighten. He was so damned close, and Jack was so fucking perfect and there was no way not to simply thrust as hard as he fucking could. Jack's body was so damned tight and Sawyer couldn't hold it back, and then he was exploding, light behind his eyes and the shock of the orgasm making him almost black out for a second.

Fuck!

Time disappeared for a moment, and when Sawyer finally got his wits together, Jack was heaving under him, sticky wetness between them. His lips pressed against Jack's throat, his breathing uneven and loud against the man's skin, and he was still inside Jack, his cock still practically pulsing.

"Fuck me," Sawyer muttered, reaching a hand up to find Jack's skull and stroking across the soft hair there.

He felt Jack's Adam's apple bob as he spoke. "Other way, I think." He sounded as breathless as Sawyer felt, but there was humor in his voice.

Sawyer cracked a grin; he had no energy to laugh yet. Mouthing the sweaty skin under his lips, he slowly began to draw back. Jack's hands went around his back, holding him in place.

"Should have done this a long time ago," Jack whispered. "Maybe things could have been different."

"Maybe," Sawyer acknowledged as Jack moved his hands again.

Jack could probably feel Sawyer's growing tension. Sawyer purposely didn't look at Jack's face as he pulled away, holding the condom in place as he withdrew from Jack's body and moved off him to dispose of it.

"Yeah, well, we didn't." Jack sounded bitter as he shifted upright and pushed past Sawyer to leave the shelter.

Sawyer grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving. "You think it would have changed anything? You don't want them to know about this, believe me. It wouldn't make them think better of me; only worse of you. They'll think you've joined me in hell."

Jack nodded, looking steely. "True. Now let me go."

Sawyer studied the determined glint on Jack's eyes for a few moments, and dropped his hand away. "You want your pills now?"

"I didn't spend the night. Thought that was the deal."

Sawyer didn't say anything.

Jack hesitated. "You can't want me to now?"

"Take the damned pills. You don't have to stay."

Jack gave him a confused look and moved away, finding his jeans and flapping into them, uncaring of the filth on his body.

Sawyer rolled his eyes. Sex always made things crazy; why did he even bother? It was a good fuck, but this kind of awkwardness after made him regret it every time. He went in search of the pills, palming a few bottles before going outside again. He caught up with Jack as he pulled his shirt back over his head. Sawyer was still naked, but he didn't care.

"Take 'em. The fuck was worth it. You want any more, come back again. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement." He gave Jack the onceover, tossing his hair like he really didn't care.

"It won't be the same," Jack offered, taking the bottles and giving him a look Sawyer didn't quite get.

"What? You'll fuck me? Don't think so, Chief."

Jack snorted and pocketed the bottles. "There's only one first time."

He walked away and Sawyer frowned. At face value, the words only referred to them, but Jack was implying something more.

"You mean that?" Sawyer's face softened into a smile. "You been saving it up for me, Doc?"

Jack turned to face him. "Don't let it go to your head. It doesn't mean anything."

Sawyer lifted a hand, about to touch Jack, but Jack smiled tightly and backed up a step. "You got what you wanted, Sawyer; don't pretend you didn't know. I got what I came for too. Now maybe we can just get on with the business of staying alive."

Nodding, Sawyer watched him walk away. He probably wouldn't ever 'get' Jack, but then, he decided as he turned to head for the sea to wash, Jack probably wouldn't ever 'get' him either.

Taking a deep breath, he strode into the waves and dived under.

There was time enough, and Sawyer was a patient man; Jack had waited this long to make his first move, but Sawyer doubted it was his last.

~//~

Untitled: The Lost Manuscript of Carver Edlund, for hitslikehammers

2011-12-21T16:24:41Z

Title: Untitled: The Lost Manuscript of Carver Edlund
Author: ozmissage
Recipient: hitlikehammers
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Claire, Miles, Richard, Sawyer, Ben, Hurley, Jacob, Chuck, Sam, Bela, Crowley, Jo, Lucifer (?), and Becky; Miles/Richard, Miles/Bela, Sawyer/Jo
Warnings: Spoilers through all of Lost and through s5 of Supernatural.
Summary: Excerpts from an unpublished series written by infamous missing author, Carver Edlund. Editor’s Note: Read with caution. Nothing is ever explained.
Author notes: Your Supernatural crossover prompt was too tantalizing to resist. This got away from me a bit, but I hope you enjoy it. Happy holidays!

Their homecoming is quiet this time, the six of them slip back into the real world almost as if they never left it. Frank makes a couple of calls, lands the plane in an airport that’s off the grid, and that’s that. Most of them don’t have anywhere to go, but they go just the same, splitting off into pairs and walking away, walking toward a new life where the island never happened.

Kate sticks close to Claire, eager to get back to Aaron, but she keeps her eyes on Sawyer the whole time. He’s broken, it’s plain to see, but there are no words she can offer that will keep him from going off on his own.

He’s the first one to walk away.

Kate and Claire go next, leaving Miles, Richard, and Frank to bum around Fiji, killing time because there’s nothing more pressing they have to do.

That’s how the survivors’ new story begins: with a whole lot of nothing.

But at least nothing is normal, and normal is exactly what they need ri--

The doorbell rings.

Chuck groans and pushes the heels of his hands against his forehead in frustration. It never fails. He can’t get two sentences into his new book without an interruption. Three months of writer’s block and he has finally found his washed-up, lush of a muse again. And okay, the story’s a little derivative-- a lot derivative actually. He’ll have to change the one name to keep that Oceanic Six chick from suing him, but there’s a decent nugget in her story and it’s not like her island had any smoke monsters or time travel on it anyway.

“Smoke monster,” he mutters to himself, thinking aloud. “I can make it a tie-in piece. It could be a demon…maybe Jo could meet up with one of the survivors. I never gave her enough to do--”

The bell rings again.

“I’m coming, okay! Just stop ringing the damn bell.”

A tie-in, he thinks. The publishers will love that.

---

i. The Hitchhiker

A wrong turn leads Claire off the interstate and onto the back roads that twine through empty stretches of farmland and dusty, one-horse towns full of people that stare suspiciously at her out-of-town plates like they’re not used to seeing strangers around these parts. Claire doesn’t mind the looks; she smiles when she stops at their rundown convenience stores to buy bottled water and gum, always goes out of her way to say hello.

She doesn’t get back on the interstate. She finds that she prefers the scenic route. It feels freer and that’s why she’s roaming around Delaware instead of getting to know her son back in California.

At least that is what she keeps telling herself.

She tried to be his mother, but the role didn’t fit anymore. Aaron has Kate. He’s happy, healthy, and loved. He has all of the things Claire can’t give him just yet. Well, she can give him love. Always. But the rest of it…she just had to go.

The day is gray and drizzly, the sky alternating between flurries of snow and ice cold downpours of rain. Claire still isn’t used to driving again yet. She spent too many years running and hiding, her feet the only form of transportation available to her.

Her grip tightens on the wheel.

It’s best not to dwell on those times.

She spots a man walking on the side of the road, his shoulders hunched against the rain, a hood drawn up, shielding his face from view. There’s a brown sack clutched in his hand; a brown sack that’s about two seconds away from splitting and spilling its contents across the pavement. He looks tall and lean and cold. Claire doesn’t pause to think before pulling up beside him.

“You need a ride?” she asks.

The man leans down slightly. Claire can’t help but notice how attractive he is. He has an easy smile too. She likes that.

“I’m just going down the road a piece to the motel,” he says. “My brother sent me on a food run. He has the car.”

He rolls his eyes at the last bit like it’s a private joke just between the two of them.

“Get in,” she tells him.

He hesitates. “You sure?”

“Are you a murderer?”

“No,” he says. “At least not lately.”

“Okay then, let’s go before your dinner ends up all over the ground.”

Claire leans across the passenger’s seat to unlock the door and the boy climbs in. He’s shivering, so Claire cranks the heat as high as it will go. She hates the cold anyway. It feels too foreign.

“I’m Claire,” she offers as she pulls back onto the road.

“Sam,” he says and holds his hand out to shake hers. His grip is firm and strong. “Thanks for this, by the way. It wasn’t raining when I left.”

“It’s no trouble, you were going my way. It never rains until you forget your umbrella, right?”

He laughs. “That sounds about right. Do you live around here?”

She thinks about lying. It might be easier to pretend she’s a local. Well, a transplant. Her accent prevents her from passing as a local anywhere but back home. Sam looks so genuine with his sopping mop of wet hair and puppy dog eyes she decides to give him a half-truth instead.

“I’m just passing through,” she says. “I’m doing the whole road trip thing, seeing the States. What about you?”

“Me and my brother are on a road trip too actually.”

Claire thinks his answer was a little too quick. She’s learned to be cautious, to listen for the things that aren’t said. It’s a lesson she came by the hard way.

“Cool. Is there any place I absolutely have to see?” she asks.

Sam doesn’t even blink.

“The Grand Canyon, definitely.”

It’s such a typical answer; she wonders if he’s ever actually been. It’s not her business though. The motel comes into view and Claire flips on her blinker and turns in.

“Thanks for the tip,” she says.

“Thanks for the ride.”

They laugh, but Claire finds she’s ready to be on her own again. Sam slides out of his seat, but pauses before getting all of the way out of the car.

“Be careful out there, okay? It’s not always safe to pick up strange people…even if they promise they won’t murder you.”

“I will,” she promises.

Sam flashes her one more smile before shutting the door. She waits until he disappears safely into the motel before pulling away. Liar or not, Claire couldn’t help but like him.

Once she’s back on the road, she flips down her visor and lightly touches the picture of Aaron she keeps tucked there. He looks so happy in the photo.

Every conversation, every smile, every shred of human contact brings her a little bit closer to getting back to him, back to herself.

The rain turns to snow again and Claire turns her wipers up a notch.

“I’ll see you soon, baby,” she whispers.

ii. The Confidence Woman

Miles doesn’t have to work jobs anymore. He’s got diamonds in his bureau, for god’s sake. It might help if he cashed them in, but thanks to Hurley, he’s got money to burn for now. He figures he’ll save the diamonds for a rainy day.

He gets bored though. Daytime television just doesn’t have the same luster after you’ve spent three years time travelling between bouts of running for your life. It might help if Richard would stand still for five damn seconds, but no. That might actually make sense.

Damn commitment phobe.

So he takes a job. It’s smalltime stuff. A rich Norma Desmond type up in the Hills claims to be haunted by her dead ex. Miles just has to make contact. Or fake making contact. He gets paid either way and there are worse ways to kill an afternoon. Miles should know. He’s done most of them.

The place is creepy. Standing at the rusty gates and staring up at the vine covered walls and the sea of paint chips, Miles decides he won’t be surprised if he walks in on a monkey funeral.

“Not a pretty picture, is it?”

Miles turns to his left and finds a woman at his side. A fucking gorgeous woman. Like cover of Maxim gorgeous and wearing a red dress to boot. She also happens to be British. Miles likes that in a woman. And sometimes in a man. He’s not picky.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s got a Munsters-vibe that I’m digging.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, aMunsters reference? All the cool kids reference The Addams Family, you know.”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

“Or a loser.”

“Is that any way to talk to the random guy you just met?”

The girl tosses her hair over her shoulder before shoving the gate open an inch. It actually has the audacity to creak. She turns back to Miles and winks.

“You coming?”

“Absolutely.”

He follows her through the tangled web of weeds that may have been a path in a previous life.

“So, you got a name?”

“I’ve got one,” she says.

“Cool. Me too.”

That earns him a laugh.

“So, what brings you to this exciting locale?” Miles asks.

“I’m a ghostbuster and the lady of the house needs some ghost busting.”

Miles stops walking.

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

Alarm bells are going off in his head. Like five-alarm fire type alarm bells. Part of it is because the hot chick is clearly stepping on his turf…or maybe he’s on hers. The other part of it is the fact that his chest is constricting and his palms are sweating and he really, really doesn’t think walking through the door of this place is a good idea.

“What about you?”

“I’m the accountant,” Miles says, hoping he doesn’t look as pale as he feels.

The girl smirks and then reaches for the door handle, but Miles grabs her wrist, holding her back.

“Let’s just screw this--”

“And go screw? Maybe later, champ.”

Miles shakes his head. He can feel something right at the edge of this place. Something dark. Something bloody. Something bad.

“I’m serious, sweetheart. Something’s not right here; let’s walk away while we still have legs to walk on.”

“That’s a very intuitive thing for an accountant to say.”

She leans in, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him to her. Her lips are soft and warm and if Miles didn’t feel like he was going to hurl at any moment, he’s pretty sure the kiss would make it onto his top ten list.

“I’m a big girl, Miles, and Mrs. Bakersfield has something I want even if she did hack her husband up into teeny-tiny pieces.”

Miles takes a step back.

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

“I do my research,” she replies with a wink.

Miles shakes his head. There’s excitement and then there’s excitement and he’s had enough of the last thing to last him a lifetime. He holds his hands up.

“Job’s all yours,” he says.

“How very gentlemanly of you.”

Miles opens his mouth to say something else, but she has already disappeared inside of the house of horrors. He thinks about going in after her, but he gets the distinct feeling she can look after herself.

It’s not like he really needed the job anyway.

iii. The Old Friend

Ben finds a demon in the jungle.

Happens more often than you would think.

“Crowley,” Ben says the demon’s name as if it’s a greeting.

Crowley grins at Ben and holds his arms out as if he expects a hug.

“You don’t call; you don’t write…a fellow could get a complex.”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

It’s true. Hurley is turning out to be a very hands on kind of leader. The island is downright pleasant these days. Ben would be lying if he said he hadn’t contemplated smothering the boy in his sleep. Not that it would do him much good. It might make him feel better…but he’s reformed now. Or in the process of reforming at least. Either way, he’s sure the road to penance is not paved with attempted homicides.

“Oh I know; you’re a regular choir boy these days. But a deal’s a deal, Benjamin.”

Ben sighs. Crowley used to be a useful ally. He wasn’t a bad drinking partner either, but just the sight of him makes Ben weary now. He should be helping Hurley design his new golf course.

“I didn’t realize my contract was up.”

“It’s not, but it will be soon. Six more months and I come to collect. Are you sure this is how you want to spend your last days? This island is turning into Candy Land. I try not to get overinvested in my clients, but I want more for you, Ben.”

It’s almost touching. Ben pats Crowley lightly on the back.

“I’ve made my choice. It’s going to be Candy Land for me.”

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Ben thinks for a moment.

“No. But you can have a drink with me; I’m not relishing the idea of plotting out a golf course in this weather.”

iv. The Hunter

There’s still blood smeared across his cheek, and he can feel bruises just beginning to blossom around his right eye and his rib cage. It’s not a bad kind of hurt, and it’s a hell of a lot better than the hurt he’s used to. He leans his shotgun against the wall. He’s not used to the sawed-off yet, it’s got a different feel to it than the rifles he carried on the island.

Jo’s small hand wraps around his wrist as she half drags him down on top of her.

“Where’s the fire, Annie Oakley?”

“Stop talking,” she hisses, one hand sliding across his chest, grazing over his bruises and making him groan. Pleasure and pain shouldn’t be so damn mixed up.

She’s got her own battle scars. Not as many as he does, but that’s only because she’s better at this work than he is. It only makes sense; she’s known the life since she was a kid, he’s known it for seven months. Or four years. He’s not sure about anything anymore.

“You should have stayed in the salt ring,” she says, her fingers working the button on his jeans. He’s so hard it hurts. God, he hopes her mama isn’t nearby tonight.

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda-- it wasn’t gonna happen,” he shoots back, nipping at her neck for good measure.

Jo flips them and straddles him all in the same motion. She leans down, blonde hair falling across her face. Sawyer shivers.

“If you don’t listen, you die. I don’t want your blood on my hands, you got me?”

Sawyer grabs her arm, holds her hand up to the light. “What’s that look like to you, sweetheart?”

She smacks him. Not too hard, just enough to make his cheek sting. Sawyer laughs.

“You’re such a smart ass,” she says.

Sawyer grips her hips and rocks up impatiently. He knows exactly what he is.

“Just stop talking.”

v. The Devil

Richard sees the man out of the corner of his eye as he disappears into a supermarket.
Just a flash of blond hair and the sound of a familiar voice, steady and comforting when it has no right to be-- Jacob.

He doesn’t follow the man into the store.

He turns and walks away and he doesn’t stop walking until he finds a church. The place is quiet and empty, peaceful. He pauses to light a candle. It could be for anyone: Isabella, Juliet…even Jacob. Maybe it’s just for him.

The confession booth is mercifully unoccupied, so he pulls the curtain aside and sinks onto the bench. He only needs a moment to collect his thoughts. Richard looks down and sees that his hands are shaking.

“Whenever you are ready, my son,” the priest says and Richard startles.

He hesitates. He did not come with the intention to confess his sins. He’s not even sure he can remember them all.

“I’m sorry, Father, I thought I was alone.”

The priest laughs, but somehow barely makes a sound.

“You’re never alone. Would you like to make a confession?”

His voice sounds so familiar. Richard tries to push the thought from his mind. He closes his eyes.

“I think I’m going insane…I keep seeing a man…a dead man. He’s everywhere. I can’t outrun him, no matter how hard I try.”

“Why do you run from him?”

Richard pauses before he speaks. “Because I think he’s the devil. I think he’s coming for me…and I think I deserve it, but I’m not ready. Not yet.”

The priest grows so quiet, Richard thinks he may have left. Or that he was never there at all.
“I am not the devil, Ricardus.”

Richard inhales sharply. It feels as if something has sucked all of the air out of the room. He gets up quickly and wrenches the curtain aside and reaches for the one shielding the priest from his view. He tugs it so hard it nearly rips, but the booth is empty. Richard leans heavily against the confessional and weeps.

The moment passes and he walks out of the church, down the steps and to the nearest bus stop without looking back. It’s dark by the time he arrives at Miles’s apartment. The boy opens the door looking relaxed, his hair a bit mussed in the back. He smirks at Richard, the corners of his lips turning up in that way that drives Richard insane.

“So the prodigal ex-immortal returns…” Miles begins, but Richard cuts him when he slides a hand around the back of Miles’s neck and hauls Miles to him.

Richard lets his fingers slide upwards to tug at Miles’s hair as his lips meet Miles’s, his tongue pushing into Miles’s mouth as his free hand slides between them to slip under Miles’s shirt. The boy is real and solid against him; Richard can even feel the steady thrum of miles’s heart beneath his fingertips.

It’s a relief to touch, to feel, to know the world is not tilting and sliding out from under his feet.

They break apart, each of them breathing heavily.

“Definitely top ten material,” Miles mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing. Are you okay, man?”

Richard laughs, a desperate, choking sound and Miles reaches up to cup his face forcing Richard to look at him. There’s so much concern in the boy’s eyes it almost makes Richard want to look away.

“I think Jacob is alive,” Richard confesses.

Miles simply nods.

“Okay.”

“Do you think I’m insane?”

“I think you’re probably right. Or it’s not him and it’s the other one screwing with you, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with it, okay? But you’ve got to stop pulling the happy wanderer crap.”

Richard kisses Miles again, softer, but no less desperately. He tastes like beer and mint and absolution.

“Tell me it’s going to be okay,” he asks.

Miles pulls Richard into a hug, a rarity for them.

“We’re going to be okay,” Miles says, holding Richard tight.

-

Across the country, Nick wakes up in a tangle of sweaty sheets.

It’s not the first time he’s dreamed of Jacob, dreamed as Jacob.

It won’t be the last.

---

Becky clears her throat, but the conference room babbles on. “Ahem,” she tries again. “AHEM.”

The chattering dies down to a murmur. Becky decides that’s close enough. She brandishes the papers clutched in her hand like a victory flag.

“As some of you may know, I’m Becky Rosen. Chuck and I were totally a thing for a while. You know, before the mysterious disappearance happened and he stopped calling his girlfriend like some giant tool. But I’m getting off track,” Becky says before holding the papers up high. “I have here in my hand a sneak peek of the unpublished, untitled Supernatural-spinoff series by Carver Edlund. It’s weird and kind of random and there’s like a whole thing about pregnant ladies and the devil’s in this one too…but he’s not the devil…I don’t think. It’s very abstract, but in a really, really awesome way.”

In the back of the convention center, Miles leans across Sawyer’s lap to whisper to Hurley, “So, what’s our move here? Do we take her down or use the hot, tall one like a carrot on a stick so we can lure her away from the book.”

Hurley shakes his head. Miles can tell he’s about to start channeling Obi-Wan Kenobi. He knows the look.

“Relax, dude, I’ve got this,” Hurley says sagely.

talk about your revolution, for angeldylan628

2011-12-20T16:46:00Z

Title:talk about your revolution
Author: irishunicorn03
Recipient: angeldylan628
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Characters: Kate, Sawyer, little bit of Claire and Aaron
Summary: It isn't shocking. Not really. Her mother is dead. And it's Christmas Eve.
Author's Notes: I'm rusty, so I'm apologizing in advance for any ooc-ness. Also placing this the second Christmas they're back.

Kate reaches for the back of her neck, glides her fingers along the smooth skin, tries to remember to breathe as she practically crumbles into the kitchen chair; nausea rising and vision blurring as the phone drops onto the table in front of her. She leans over, tucking her head between her knees, deep breaths swimming from her lips until her stomach settles and everything else goes numb.

Even Christmas music from the living room gradually fades from existence.

It isn't shocking. Not really. She's been expecting it. The timing, though...if she'd only just let it ring....but it wouldn't change the fact....

Her mother is dead. She almost adds the word finally, but it leaves a sour taste on her tongue so she lets it go after a second.

The words roll over and over again inside her mind as a few tears start to roll down her cheeks, staining the denim of her jeans, falling to the floor at her feet. She doesn't understand why she's crying, but she is, and the courage to stop is welcomed but she can't find it.

The need to crawl out of her skin is unreal. She feels the burn crawl up her spine, settling at the base of her skull where it starts to pound against her, moving to the backs of her eyes for another place to torture.

“Kate?

She doesn't startle as she should. For some reason knowing she would be found like this. Claire's hand settles on her back, cool to the touch even on top of the blouse she's wearing. She shudders out another breathe before standing up, Claire's hand falling away as she wipes away stray tears. She's kept as many details about her mother as close to the chest as possible and really doesn't want to get into it now. Claire knows the basics, though.

“Kate, what's wrong?”

It's Christmas Eve. She shouldn't be facing this, they shouldn't be facing this, but she lets the words tumble out.

“My mom just died.”

There's a moment, and it feels like all the air's being sucked out of the room as she turns around, watching as sadness, relief, anger, flashes across the other woman's face, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she settles for,

“I'm sorry.”

Kate nods, dislodging a few stubborn tears. She smiles, feeling absurdly like laughing as Silent Night starts playing in the background.

“Don't be.”

- - - - - - - - -

Later, when she opens the front door and sees Sawyer on the other side, his dimples showing as he grins and shuffles his feet, looking for all the world like he's going to bolt any minute, raw emotions get the best of her and she all but throws herself into his embrace, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder as she does so. It knocks him back a step and he laughs into her hair as he puts his arms around her waist and squeezes. He feels warm and safe and she allows herself to relax against him for a couple more seconds before reluctantly pulling away. His leather jacket stays within her grip as she meets his amused gaze.

His eyebrows are practically in his hairline when he asks, “What was that for?”

She shrugs, a light blush creeping up her cheeks as she releases her grip on the jacket, soothing out the wrinkles before giving him the brightest smile she can. “I haven't seen you in awhile and I wasn't sure you'd come tonight. You look good, by the way.”

He sees pass the bravado and the excuse she offers him, just like he always has, and he's opening his mouth to tell her so, she knows, but before he can she hears Claire calling from behind her.

“Hey, James.”
- - - - - - - - -

But it's hard to miss the concern in Claire's eyes. It's even harder to avoid being cornered by Sawyer, so she concentrates on Aaron and basks in the warmth of his giggles and the way his eyes light up while he opens the few presents he's allowed to.

There's still a tiny ache there, that will probably never go away, especially when she watches him and Claire together. But it never lingers long.

At least it makes her forget about her mom.

- - - - - - - - -

Sawyer sets his glass beside the sink and leans against the counter, catching up a stray dishtowel in his hands and lightly elbowing her in the arm. He keeps his voice light. “Claire said to tell you the kids' asleep.”

She shoots him an amused glance and finishes rinsing the last of the plates before placing them in the dishwasher, but her stomach tenses because she knows he's about to dive in. “The kid?” She pulls the towel out of his hands to dry hers.

“Yeah, so what's wrong?”

She takes a deep breath and the warm air coasts pass her lips as she lets it out, pulling the towel tight between her fingers, just grasping on to....something. She doesn't know why she's been so hesitate about talking to him. If anyone, he would probably understand the most. She lets a minute tick by after his question. He's being more patient than she thought he would be, but she hears restlessness in the shuffling of his feet.

She bites the bullet.

“My mother died. A few hours ago.”

His left eye twitches and he frowns, swearing underneath his breath as he stands straight, turning to her. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face for a few seconds before letting go. For some reason, it makes her smile, makes a laugh bubble up inside her chest that feels absurdly normal. Makes everything feel just a little bit lighter, despite. But she covers her mouth before it escapes, shrugs, and just says,

“I know.”

She releases her strangle hold on the towel, throwing it on the counter and rocking back so that she's leaning against it, wood digging into her spine and her arm brushing his.

He drags his hands up to his hips, fiddling with belt loops and pockets.

“I'm gonna ask the dumb question. You okay?”

She closes her eyes. Opens them. Feels her heart beginning to pound as her palms start to sweat. She wipes them up and down her jeans. (She really, really wishes she could get control over her reactions.) “I don't know. It's not that I wasn't expecting it, but it's still sucky timing. And it almost feels like a....”

“Fuck you.”

A sharp laugh and then, “Yeah.” Kate pushes away the vaguest of guilt those words and thoughts provoke, the way they squeeze at her heart as she remembers their last conversation, all the what-ifs and maybes surrounding – everything. Tears burn the corners of her eyes. She looks up so they won't fall, but runs a thumb under her left eye to catch one that escapes. “She tried to apologize, in her own way, the last time we talked. Which was actually really horrible. But I wouldn't hear her out. I couldn't. Not after everything she'd done. Even because of everything I'd done.”

Sawyer tugs her hand into his and she leans her forehead against his shoulder. “You're not that person anymore. Stop looking in the past.”

“Aren't you the one who said 'a tiger don't change his stripes.'”

He rolls his eyes, remembering, and shakes his head. His hair brushes across her forehead with a slight tickle. “I've been known to be wrong a time or two.”

She smiles into his shirt, a snort escaping, and she murmurs,

“You're not that person either.”

His body tenses and his fingers tighten around hers and she almost wants to take it back, because she's hit to close to something; but she doesn't and then he lets her go to walk away, turning a kitchen chair around to sit in. He clasps his hands over the top and meets her gaze. Any trace of pain that could be there, isn't.

“So what are you gonna do about your mom?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose and rubs a hand over her face. Another headache is starting. “God, I have to plan the funeral. Make arrangements for everything.” Her voice grows smaller, pathetic even to her own ears. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“You can.” His voice is loud in the silence. Commanding. He gestures wildly with his hands. “Freckles, you can. Just stop thinking about it right now and enjoy the rest of Christmas. Then go and deal with it. Grieve if you need to. Hell, get angry and throw things. And if you need me for anything-”

“I know. Thanks.” She clears her throat and grins, feeling better about the situation, like a light switch has been flicked. It's probably not good that it happened like that, for her emotional state, but she likes that he can do that for her. “Same goes for me too, you know.”

He doesn't acknowledge her words really, just shakes his head for his own 'I know’, and stands. The chair scrapes loudly in the silence as he slides it under the table and then heads for the fridge.

To his back she adds, “I'm really glad you came. I have missed you.”

He winks over his shoulder as he pulls out a beer. “Me too.”

THE END

It’s Raining In Paris and I’m In Love, for eponine119

2011-12-20T04:53:26Z

Title: It’s Raining In Paris and I’m In Love
Author: ciaimpala
Recipient: eponine119
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: No spoilers. Higher rating for sex.
Summary: When Shannon pays for Sawyer and Jack’s second honeymoon in Paris if they’ll come to her concert, the two men of course say yes.
Author notes: I tried to fit in as many of your prompts/wishes as I could-I hope you like it! Happy Holidays!

“Always promised I’d take you to Paris, Doc,” Sawyer murmured, smirking as he came up behind Jack, kissing his bare shoulder.

“I don’t remember that promise including Shannon Rutherford paying for everything,” Jack teased, turning away from the stunning view outside their hotel room window, meeting Sawyer’s lips with his own.

“Ain’t like any of us saw that one coming,” Sawyer said with a shrug, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist, Jack leaning into him. “And if Sticks wants to pay for a second honeymoon for us so we’ll go to her concert, no reason to turn that down.”

“I still can’t believe she’s calling her band The Oceanics,” Jack said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“Money in the bank,” Sawyer said with a smirk. “Should have taken that manager job when she offered it.”

“When, in the five minutes before she took it back?” Jack laughed.

“I wouldn’t have embezzled any money!” Sawyer protested. “Especially not now I have a trophy husband,” he added, smiling, as he played with the waistband of Jack’s boxers. “He’s a doctor, you know.”

“Is he now,” Jack grinned back, kissing Sawyer. “I hear he has a gorgeous husband who owns and runs a very successful bookstore.”

“Best bookstore in L.A.”

“Best bookstore in L.A.,” Jack agreed proudly, kissing Sawyer again. “But now we need to get clothes on so we’re not late to Shannon’s concert.”

“But don’t V.I.P mean Very Import Peni-“ Sawyer began, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Don’t even start!” Jack laughed, Sawyer slapping his ass before grabbing a pair of pants.

xoxo

“That actually was a great concert,” Jack admitted, taking Sawyer’s hand as they walked back to their hotel.

“The song names seem a little familiar,” Sawyer said. “The Long Con? Science and Faith? Letter Before Drowning?”

“So she based them off real life,” Jack shrugged. “She actually seems happy. Besides, I really liked the one about the doctor of love.” Laughing, he leaned into Sawyer’s side.

“You would,” Sawyer snorted, wrapping his arm around Jack’s waist, pulling him even closer.

“Look!” Grabbing Sawyer’s hand again, Jack pulled him around until he was facing what Jack had suddenly noticed.

The lights on the Eiffel Tower had suddenly been turned on, the night dark enough for the brilliant, beautiful illumination to shine through.

“You’re such a romantic,” Sawyer teased, but his voice was soft and his tone gentle.

“I married you, I can’t be that much of a romantic,” Jack teased back, eyes soft as he leaned in and kissed Sawyer.

“Don’t count me out just yet, Doc,” Sawyer answered, bringing his arms together to meet at the back of Jack’s neck.

“Never,” Jack promised, kissing him again. He suddenly felt Sawyer start to sway, causing Jack’s body to move with his.

“I sure did like that song too,” Sawyer whispered into Jack’s ear. “The one about the science-ridden man with the plan, who met the con man with the Southern charm and found his faith in his loving arms.” He nuzzled behind Jack’s ear. “A little corny, not gonna lie, and it’s a crime there was no mention of your sweet ass, but other than that, rang real true to me.”

“You know, if I tell anyone about this, it’s going to ruin your tough guy image for good,” Jack whispered, running a hand through Sawyer’s hair.

“Think I’ve already ruined that,” Sawyer said with a laugh. “Gave it away with that whole proposal in the pouring rain. Figured I had to step up and do it, you were probably too busy analyzing the logistics of how many karats of gold to use in the band.”

Jack jokingly smacked Sawyer in the shoulder, Sawyer dodging and weaving, laughing as he evaded Jack, before grabbing him into a bear hug and kissing him soundly.

The skies suddenly opened, releasing a deluge, rain soaking them through to the skin within seconds. They both burst out laughing, grabbing each other’s hands and beginning to run back towards the hotel.

Tearing through the lobby, getting strange looks from all the other hotel guests currently sheltering from the rain in the opulent front room, they slipped and slid into their room, wet feet and sopping jeans causing Sawyer to almost stumble into the bathroom.

“Whoa, gotcha,” Jack said, grabbing Sawyer around the waist and tugging him in against him. “That eager to get in a hot shower, huh?”

“That eager to get those clothes off you, Doc,” Sawyer smirked, turning easily and pressing his hands against Jack’s soaking-wet shirt, pulling it up over his head, leaving Jack’s hair sticking up in all directions. “Bedhead already. So damn sexy.”

Jack reached his hands out, running them through Sawyer’s hair, keeping his hands entangled as he leaned in for a deep kiss. Sawyer’s hands were on Jack’s belt, unbuckling it and working Jack’s wet jeans down over his ass. Dropping to his knees, Sawyer kissed his way up Jack’s inner thigh.

“Shit, Sawyer, so good,” Jack gasped out, rocking his hips towards Sawyer, fingers still wrapped tight in Sawyer’s hair.

“Doc, you know I can do more than good,” Sawyer smirked around Jack’s cock, reaching a hand up to slide a finger up Jack’s ass. Jack shuddered, bucking into Sawyer’s touch as more fingers were added, breathing heavily as Sawyer slid to his feet and moved behind Jack, bending him over the foot of the bed.

“Just like in our tent Doc, just a bit fancier surroundings,” Sawyer murmured into his ear, sliding his own jeans down as he lined himself up behind Jack, sliding in slowly.

“Fuck, Sawyer!” Jack moaned, spreading his legs wider, knuckles turning white against the foot of the bed, Sawyer’s hair sliding along Jack’s bare back as he began to pound in faster and faster. “Just like that, oh god, Sawyer, just like that,” Jack chanted, sweat glistening across his skin, rocking his body against Sawyer’s, breath coming faster and faster.

Sawyer moved his hand suddenly, taking Jack’s erect cock between his calloused fingers, and Jack’s knees almost buckled beneath him, Sawyer’s strong legs keeping them both up. Jack’s head suddenly arched backwards, his body bucking and tightening, muscles tense as the orgasm ripped through him. His tightening ass muscles clenching around Sawyer’s cock brought Sawyer over the edge as well, and both men slumped together, barely upright, breathing heavily.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Doc,” Sawyer gasped out, as the two men collapsed onto the bed. Jack guided Sawyer’s head onto his chest, resting his cheek against Sawyer’s hair.

“Love you,” Jack whispered, letting his eyes drop closed as Sawyer wrapped his arms around him, holding the two of them tightly together.

“Love you too,” Sawyer whispered back.

Over, for tia_no_one

2011-12-19T01:53:52Z

Title: Over
Author: krilymcc
Recipient: tia_no_one
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: This is a story of love turned disaster.
Author notes: This is my first time writing in this style so please be kind.

Prompts: Juliet/Jack in Sideways!verse: "It's over, isn't it?"; out of order.

8.

(1997)

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Jack asked leaning up against the bookshelf, “We’re really over?”

Juliet looked up and spotted a picture that David had drawn at school of the two of them happy and smiling like a family should and then there was Jack, on the other side of the page all by himself, dressed in his scrubs with a frown on his face.

“It’s been over for a while Jack. Everyone could see it but us.”

1.

(1985)

They met on her first day of college. Her roommate dragged her to a party one of the frats were throwing, swearing that she wouldn’t leave her alone. That lasted all of about twenty minutes and then she was stuck in a corner sipping beer and listening to bad music.

Everyone ignored her, of course they did, because who’d want to talk to an awkward frizzy haired girl?

Well apparently there was one who wanted to talk to her.

Jack Sheppard. (She hadn’t learned his name yet, wouldn’t for days, but once she did, she never forgot it.)

“So what brings someone like you to a place like this?” he asked causing her to almost choke on her beer.

“Excuse me?” she coughed, “You didn’t really just say that did you?”

“Didn’t work?” he asked.

“Not a bit.” She laughed and then pushed her way past him, deciding to call it a night.

4.

(1992)

“Damn it Jack will you just listen to me?” Juliet yelled throwing a bowl down on the ground. It shattered into a dozen pieces, waking David up in the process.

“Oh that’s just fucking great.” Jack yelled getting up from the table, “Now he’s never going to get back to sleep.”

“Why do you care? I’m always the one who takes care of him. I’m the one who gave up my life to take care of him.” Juliet turned around and headed to David’s room.

Jack followed her down the hall, “He’s your son!”

“Our son, Jack. He’s our son!”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure about that.”

Juliet spun around and before she had time to think she struck Jack across the face.

They both stood there, silent and shaking.

“I’ll sleep in David’s room tonight.” Juliet whispered, “We’ll talk in the morning.”

2.

(1988)

Jack was going on and on about Columbia, why it was the best choice for med school, why she’d love New York but Juliet wasn’t listening.

“Juliet. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Juliet said with a half shrug.

“You haven’t touched your food, and you’re not trying to argue with me about schools. You never miss an opportunity to argue with me, especially when it comes to schools.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to go to med school, so arguing is pointless.”

“You’re not going? From our first date all you could talk about was how you were going to be a Doctor and how no one and nothing will change that.”

Juliet looked down at her plate and quietly told him, “A baby would.” She looked up and a little louder said, “I’m pregnant.”

Jack dropped his fork on his plate, causing a loud clank that made the other customers look at their table.

“You’re what?”

“I’m pregnant Jack.”

“Is it—“Jack stopped to rethink his words, “Are you—Wow.”

Juliet sighed, “Yeah.”

6.

(1997)

“He’s not here,” Rachel sighed as she and Juliet sat watching David and his classmates run around the back yard playing with light sabers.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how you’ve stuck around this long Jules. I really don’t.”

“Rachel.” Juliet gave her sister a piercing glare.

“He’s always late. Your wedding, David’s birth, hell he’s probably going to be late to his own funeral.”

“He’s going to make it. He said he’d be here.”

3.

(1989)

“What do you think?” Juliet asked walking into the viewing room, one of the fitting room attendants carrying the dress’s long train behind her.

Everyone surrounded her, bursting into a round of ‘oohs’ and ‘awes’ and ‘You make a beautiful bride’.

She should be happy; she was getting married, having a baby those supposed to be two of the happiest times in a person’s life. So why did she feel like she wanted to run away?

And apparently Rachel could see how she was feeling, “You don’t have to do this you know.” She whispered running a hand through her baby sister's hair, "This is a modern world; you don’t have to get married just because you’re having a baby.”

Juliet sighed, “And what if I want to do this? What if I do want to marry Jack? Have you thought of that?”

“I think we both know you don’t.”

“What’s the verdict?” The attendant asked.

Juliet ran her hand over the front of her dress stopping on her stomach, “Let’s go try on another.”

5.

(1996)

“Juliet!” Jack called out through the crowd of graduates.

“Mom!” David exclaimed trying to break free from his father’s grasp.

“There are my boys.” Juliet smiled as she made her way up to them.

“Congratulations Doctor Shepard.”

“Well thank you Doctor Shepard.” Juliet leaned in for a kiss.

“Eww.” David wrinkled up his nose.

“Oh you think that’s gross huh? Well how about this?” Juliet bent down and began to smother her son with kisses and tickles.

“Mommy!” David laughed.

“Okay,” Juliet stood up and brushed the hair out of her eyes, “So where do you guys want to go to dinner?”

“I hate to do this but...”

“There’s a surgery. “

“Yes.”

Juliet sighed, “Go. You have to do what you have to do.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

7.

(1997)

“Am I too late?” Jack asked poking his head in the kitchen where Juliet was cleaning up the remains from David’s birthday party.

“Yeah Jack, you are.” Juliet couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“I’m sorry. There was—“Jack walked up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, which Juliet brushed off.

“A surgery, I know.” She turned around, “There’s always a surgery. “

“Don’t get mad at me Juliet.”

“Oh no, I can’t do that. Because Saint Jack is never in the wrong.” Juliet pushed past and walked into the study and Jack followed right behind her, “Miss your son’s birthday? Oh no big deal, it’s not like people were counting on you.”

“There was a complication. I couldn’t just leave that poor girl in the middle of a surgery.”

“You didn’t have to do the surgery in the first place Jack! You are not the only surgeon at that hospital.”

“We both know that I can’t do that.”

Juliet sat down at the desk and put her head in her hands, “David’s staying the night with my mom and Rachel at the hotel. We’ll stay there for a few days while I look for a new place.”

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Jack asked leaning up against the bookshelf, “We’re really over?”

Always Something There To Remind Me, for gottalovev

2011-12-19T01:46:13Z

Title: Always Something There To Remind Me
Author: tellshannon815
Recipient: gottalovev
Pairing and/or Characters: Sawyer/Miles, Kevin, Detective Walton (Ana’s ex-partner). Mentions of Ana, Karl, Kate, Anthony Cooper, Naomi.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Goes AU a bit for S6.
Prompt: Road trips are good for the soul; Sawyer/Miles: I trust you.
Summary: When the woman Kevin knew as Monica Callis is brought into the police station where he works, he takes off for Florida unsure if he will return. Sawyer and Miles go on a road trip to bring him back.
Author notes: Kind of a sideways verse of the sideways verse, since I changed a few things that happened in canon. Hope you like it anyway. Merry Christmas!

“What’s with him?” Miles asked James, gesturing towards where their partner, Kevin Callis, had just stormed out of the room without a word for either of them.

“You got me.” James shrugged. “He oughta be celebrating. We just brought down all those guys from Tampa he’d been looking for for the last four years. Something’s obviously upset him.”

“He started acting like that after Kate Austen was brought in. Don’t know why,” volunteered Detective Mike Walton, who was new to their team. James didn’t know much about him, other than that he’d recently transferred to their squad after some sort of scandal around his corrupt ex-partner, Officer Ana Lucia Cortez. “He saw me booking her in, then his face went kind of a funny colour and he just walked out.”

“Kate Austen?” James repeated.

“Yeah, you must remember the story. She was on America’s Most Wanted the other night, for Pete’s sake. That woman who tried to blow up her house with her stepfather, or father, I can never remember which, inside, only she ended up blowing up some other guy instead? She just got picked up in a hospital after hijacking some pregnant chick in a cab. Don’t know what she has to do with Kevin, though.” He gave them both a wave before leaving the room.

James and Miles looked at each other. They both knew very well who this woman was, and what she was to Kevin.

“Monica’s back.” Miles whispered.

James nodded. “Son of a bitch.”

*****

Maybe it should have been Miles who went after him, James thought as he made his way towards the cells where the woman who Kevin had known as Monica Callis was being held. Miles was the one out of the two of them who had more of a clue what to say in these kind of situations.

You did okay with that Karl Martin kid you busted for shoplifting a few months back, he imagined he heard Miles’s voice in his head. When you saw him the other day, he’d really turned his life around. He’d even found himself a girlfriend.

Yeah, okay, so he’d done good with Chachi, but he also remembered how Miles had said all the right things after James had finally confessed to him who Anthony Cooper was. He’d showed James that he understood, he’d made him realise how much he valued their friendship without getting mushy about it. Miles was the only person who James had ever felt comfortable talking to about Anthony Cooper, because even though he’d made it clear that he didn’t agree with what James wanted to do if he ever found that guy, he understood.

As James was musing on this, Kevin approached him from the opposite direction, not watching where he was going and only noticing James when he collided with him.

“Easy.” James helped him to his feet. “So, what happened back there?”

“She wouldn’t see me,” Kevin burst out. “She wouldn’t even tell me why she was here in the first place. I’d hoped she was here to try and explain it to me,” he began. James, having seen the mugshot that was taken when she was booked in and remembering that he had actually met Monica/Kate before, that she had been on the same flight back from Australia, thought he would be wise not to mention this, at least for now. “I just need answers, you know?”

“I get that,” James replied, understanding all too well; he’d had so many thoughts over the years of the questions he would ask Mr. Sawyer if he ever did track him down. He’d even asked the questions so many times, every time he brought a con artist down, he’d ask them why they’d done it. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever gotten the same answer twice. But he still didn’t feel he understood why the man he now knew as Anthony Cooper had done what he did. “But it sounds like she’s not gonna give you what you need.”

“I don’t even know why I expected anything else,” Kevin continued as though James hadn’t spoken. “You know, on our wedding day I said that what I loved about her was that what you saw was what you got. Shows how much I knew. Monica – Katherine – never told a word of truth in the whole time I knew her.”

James wished he knew what to say. The thing with Karl had been a fluke. The rest of the time, he sucked at this. “Look, if you wanna talk about her, or take your mind off her, Miles is comin’ over tonight to watch the Lakers game, have a few beers...come join us if you like.”

Kevin smiled weakly. “You know I’m a Sox guy.”

“You’re smilin’. There’s a start.”

“Seriously, I don’t feel like it tonight, but another time, huh? Right now I just feel like I need to be on my own for a while.” Kevin turned and walked away.

James watched him go, feeling like he should call after him, say something else to change his mind, but not knowing what to say. He should have sent Miles after all. He’d probably have handled it a hell of a lot better.

*****

“Did Kevin call you?” Miles burst into the room without so much as a greeting for James.

“No idea. He coulda tried, but my phone was dead.” James turned to face Miles, registered the expression on his face. “What’s up?”

“He’s gone.” Miles explained. “He told me last night. He’s taking off for back home in Florida for a while.”

“So when’s he coming back?” James asked.

Miles shook his head. “That’s the thing. He didn’t know. He said he just wanted to take some time out to think things over...but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever come back.”

Son of a bitch. Could James have stopped Kevin from taking off like this if he’d managed to get him talking the week before? He’d never know. But there was one thing he could do, to kind of make up for that.

“Then you know what we’re gonna have to do?” James asked. “Road trip. We’re gonna go over there and persuade him he has to come back with us.”

*****

New Mexico.

“I’m not used to getting to ride shotgun,” Miles mused as he took a bite of his sandwich. “Kevin always calls it.”

“Don’t get used to it,” James replied to that. “Since we’re gonna bring him back. Besides, he has better taste in music,” he joked as Miles fiddled with the dials to change the radio station.

“See what I mean?” he continued as You All Everybody blasted out from the car radio.

“Come on, I didn’t choose this, it just happened to be on this station!” Miles pointed out. “You think I’d choose this myself, the number of times Naomi’s subjected me to it?”

“Guess not.” James admitted. “Bet she loved the story about the time their bassist was held in our station.”

“Not much of a story, since we didn’t see him. She might have been more interested if I’d met their lead singer, instead of you, since you guys never really got along. Not that it matters now anyway.”

“What do you mean?” James asked, but they were interrupted by some guy in an SUV who pulled out in front of them, causing James to slam on his brakes. “Sorry, brother!” the driver of the SUV mouthed to them as he pulled away.

“Son of a bitch.” James cursed as he followed the SUV. “That guy could have gotten us both killed.”

“Let it go,” Miles replied. “He didn’t, and we’re not on duty here. Just forget about him.”

“You’re right,” James sighed. The important thing was finding Kevin and talking him into coming back, after all. But while they were on this trip, there was somewhere else en route where James wanted to stop, too.

*****

Texas.

“Son of a bitch,” James muttered when he saw the double bed.

“I’m sorry,” the owner explained, “but this is the only room we have available tonight.”

“It’s okay, Jim,” Miles joked. “Charlotte already told me you snore. Besides, it’s either this, or a night in the car.”

James brushed the snoring comment off (Charlotte wouldn’t have had the chance to find that out anyway, but he didn’t like the reminder of what had happened). “Come on, Hoss, I’ve crashed on your couch lots of times since we first met at the Academy. You didn’t already know that?”

Miles laughed. “True.”

“So, uh, I guess that chick still hates me, huh? Charlotte.” James said at last.

Miles shrugged. “She hasn’t actually mentioned you in a while. But I doubt she cares any more. She’s got a new boyfriend now, anyway. You remember Daniel Widmore, the guy playing the piano at my dad’s benefit concert? She met up with him that night and she’s been seeing him ever since.”

“So now there’s a pianist out there wanting to kick my ass? Great.” James replied.

“Daniel?” Miles snorted. “I doubt it. I’ve got to know him a bit now, and I really can’t see him kicking anyone’s ass. But he’s got no reason to, since Charlotte’s over what happened.”

James had to admit he felt relieved, knowing that Charlotte was now happy. Miles talked about finding him a woman so often, and every time he’d said it, James had usually laughed along with him. But he’d never felt he could tell him that he wasn’t sure it was a woman he wanted, but a man.

Specifically, Miles.

That was why it would never have worked with Red, whether she’d found the Sawyer file or not. But it wasn’t going to happen, he accepted that. And it wouldn’t have even if James had told Miles the truth in the beginning. Which reminded him...

“Hey, Enos, are you gonna check in with Naomi?” he asked.

Miles frowned. “Naomi?”

“Yeah, your girlfriend?”

Miles stared at him. “Did I really not tell you? I would have said something when we were talking about her on the road, before that jackass cut us up, but Naomi and I broke up a couple of weeks ago.”

“You’re kiddin’ me. What happened?” James asked.

Miles rolled his eyes. “The usual. She yelled at me, she threw things, a couple of days later she made the drunk phone call begging me to change my mind...” He smiled, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “But it isn’t gonna happen. I’ve realised recently that she isn’t what I’m looking for in a long term partner.”

“How come you never talked to me about this before?” James asked.

Miles shrugged. “It happened at the same time as the whole Tampa operation went down. At the time, there were more important things going on.”

“Yeah, guess you’re right.” James muttered, pretending he was convinced. But he knew that in the past, Miles wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him what was going on in his life whether they had a tough case or not. Things had changed between them since they’d had the conversation about Anthony Cooper. Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted that if he ever did track the guy down, he’d kill him. It could be his imagination, but he thought Miles had looked at him sorta differently since then. Or maybe it was just the fact that James had been keeping a secret from Miles for so long, when he’d always believed they had no secrets. He didn’t know.

“So, dude, uh, which side of the bed do you prefer?” Miles asked, filling the awkward silence with an equally awkward question.

“Left, I guess.” James shrugged.

“That’s good, since I prefer the right,” Miles grinned as he pulled back the covers. “Sweet dreams, James.”

James lay awake long after the sound of Miles’s breathing told him he was asleep. There was no point in getting his hopes up. So Miles had finished with Naomi. It didn’t mean that he had a chance himself.

Least they were only gonna be in Texas one night. He wouldn’t have another night of being so close to Miles and yet feeling so far away.

*****

Alabama.

“Shoulda known you’d track me down here,” James attempted to smile. The man who’d run his credit card wouldn’t stop at following him, after all.

“They don’t call me one third of the best detective team in LAPD for nothing,” Miles joked. “So this is where it all happened, huh?”

James nodded. “I haven’t been back to Alabama since my Uncle Doug took me to LA not long after the funeral. But that’s the house there. Number fifteen. That’s where my father shot my mother, and then shot himself. I’m surprised it’s still standin’,” he said more to himself than to Miles. “Don’t know what I expected. But you hear people sayin’ they don’t wanna live in a house where a murder’s happened.” He glanced up at the window which had once been his own, where a boy who looked to be about the age James had been back then was staring down at him. “I wonder if they know.”

“And how do you feel?” Miles asked. “Now that you’ve seen it again.”

“I don’t even know how I was expectin’ to feel,” James admitted. “I mean, what did I think was gonna happen? Anthony Cooper was gonna come out of there and give me the answers I wanted? Come on, you saw me tryin’ to call all of those guys. It was a helluva list. Chances are, I’m never gonna find the right one. Or was I expectin’ my parents to still be here? That’s even dumber.”

“No, it’s not. You know my mom died not long before we started in the Academy, right? Well, I kept on thinking I saw her for months afterwards. So that really isn’t that crazy. But think about it. Which do you think they’d be prouder of? You avenging them by killing this Cooper guy? Or the way you’ve turned things around for yourself, helping get all the other Mr. Sawyers off the street? Killing this guy...it’s going to change who you are, for ever. And I kind of like the partner I have, thanks.”

“Guess you’re right,” James said.

“So, are you ready to get back in the car? We still need to find somewhere to stay tonight.”

“You go ahead,” James replied. “I got somewhere else I wanna go first.”

*****

In Loving Memory of Warren Ford, April 15 1940 – July 23 1976. Also of Mary Brooke Ford, his wife, June 8 1942 – July 23 1976.

Miles had hung back as James approached the grave, giving him some space to be alone with his parents. James was grateful for that, and yet at the same time, he was also grateful for Miles’s presence, knowing that he could just turn around and Miles was there if he needed him.

It had been twenty eight years earlier that James had sat in this same spot, writing the letter to Mr. Sawyer, borrowing the pen from that guy who nobody admitted to knowing. It seemed kinda fitting that this was going to be the spot where he was going to rip it up, knowing that he was no longer going to spend any more time tracking down this guy. Miles was right; it wasn’t what they would have wanted. But he had to admit, Miles was the only person who could ever have made him see that.

*****

“Might as well be back in that place in Texas,” Miles had joked when they’d realised just how thin the walls were in their motel in Alabama. James had laughed it off, not wanting Miles to see his reaction. But when James was awakened by Miles crying out in the night, suddenly it wasn’t funny any more.

“What’s up?” James asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” Miles snapped. “I just had a really weird dream.”

“Wanna tell me about it? Because that sure sounded like a nightmare.”

“It didn’t even make sense,” Miles began, looking both confused at the dream and relieved at being able to talk about it with someone. “My dad’s still alive. You’ve met him lots of times. But in my dream, it was like he’d been dead for years, and I hadn’t even known him. I was on a boat, going to some weird island, and Naomi was there, and Charlotte and Daniel, and Naomi was talking about some guy having used poison gas before, and all I could think of was what if this had happened to my father? But that wasn’t all, because then I saw him getting crushed under some beam. That’s when I woke up, and I don’t even know if I’d have saved him.”

“It’s just a dream,” James tried to reassure him. “It don’t mean nothing.”

“I know, but it felt so real.”

“I’ve had dreams like that myself a coupla times.” James hadn’t talked to Miles about this at the time (the truce between them had been still too shaky for him to feel he could talk about it then). “Mine were about the guys from the Tampa Job. No idea why I’d wanna dream about them. Your daddy and Naomi have never gotten along, right? Maybe you were thinkin’ about his reaction if you guys ever got back together.”

Miles shook his head. “I won’t be getting back with Naomi, James. When I told you she wasn’t what I was looking for in a partner, I wasn’t telling you everything. But after that talk we had earlier, I realised it was time I did.”

“What do you mean?” James asked.

“It was those few weeks when we weren’t partners any more that made me realise. You remember that time when Naomi and I broke up for a couple of weeks and then got back together?”

James nodded. “Wasn’t that when she thought you were hitting on Officer Cortez at the Christmas party?”

Miles laughed and nodded. “Couldn’t have got that more wrong if she’d tried. But yeah, that’s right. But that doesn’t matter. My point is, I realised I was less upset by the breakup with Naomi than I was by not being partnered with you. And that’s when I realised that it wasn’t Naomi I wanted. It was you.”

Now that this moment had actually come, James didn’t even know what to say that wouldn’t sound dumb.

“And I know you probably don’t feel the same, but you’ve been honest with me, so I needed to tell you.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to find a way to tell you the same thing!” James had to laugh at the situation. “That’s why it never would have worked with Charlotte, or any of the girls anyone tried settin’ me up with. Because it was always gonna be you.”

“You mean we’ve been feeling the same way, and we’ve wasted all this time?” Miles laughed.

James grinned at him. “Then we better not waste any more.”

Florida.

“Should have known you’d track me down here,” Kevin smiled when James and Miles showed up at the motel where he and “Monica” had spent the night before their wedding.

“Sure this is a wise place to have stayed?” Miles asked.

“I’ve been back to all the places I’d been with her, I had to see it one more time...but you’re right, I do need to get out of here now. She’s in my past, it’s time to move on.”

James nodded in agreement. One day he’d tell Kevin that he understood, that it was time for him to let go of the man named Sawyer and all the hatred he’d been carrying around for years. But this wasn’t the moment.

“But this trip served one purpose anyway,” Kevin continued. “I’ve been wondering all this time when you two were going to figure it out. And if I had to leave town for a while to get you to come to your senses, well, it was worth it.”

James smiled. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Come on, it’s written all over your faces. You two finally got it together. I’ve been waiting for weeks for this.”

“You mean you knew? Even back when I was still with Naomi?” Miles asked.

Kevin snorted. “Especially when you were still with Naomi. So what made the two of you finally come to your senses?”

“That’s a helluva long story.” James grinned as he clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “It’s one we’ll tell you on the way home.”

“Do I get to call shotgun?” Kevin asked.

Miles groaned. “You see what I mean?”

Laughing, the three of them made their way back to the car, to Los Angeles.

my worst enemy makes for my best friend, for aurilly

2011-12-18T00:03:13Z

Title: my worst enemy makes for my best friend
Author: angeldylan628
Recipient: aurilly
Pairing: Kate/Sayid
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: The more Sayid inserts himself in her life the harder she tries to set boundaries. The more she sets the more obvious it becomes that it's all for show. Post-island AU.

The light wakes Kate up too early. It's the slightest hint of sun peaking through the drapes she can never get to shut properly. This isn't the first time it's happened. If she ends up on her side and it's a particularly sunny morning, the light will wake her up at just past seven. It's like clockwork.

She flops over, rather dramatically to get away from it. The sheets are ruffled beside her, already cold but the pillow still smells like him - a combination of sandalwood and gunpowder and some sort of spice she cannot name. She gives herself a moment to bask in it before getting up.

She only sleeps on her side after she's slept with him. Usually she's on her back, spread out in the center of the bed just because she can. But when he's here, she curls up on her side to give him space. He scoots over until she's trapped, lips pressed to the back of her neck. She always expects it to keep her up - the way he clings to her, hand curled into her shirt, leg snaked between hers. It should be stifling for a girl like Kate whose old habits used to leave her running from men before the sun was even up.

But now Kate lets him into her home and doesn't kick him out once it's over. She's asleep before she knows it, too - the seconds he whispers, "Good night, Katherine" to her bare shoulder.

Sayid's gone before the sun hits Kate's eyes. Like clockwork - this is another one of those things she can count on.

---

Sayid's with her when she picks out her new house.

Kate never went back to the house in LA - the one she shared with Aaron and Jack - the one filled with lies. She sells it as soon as the plane touches the ground. Literally. She uses an airport payphone to get her lawyer to start the papers. It sells when she's living in Claire's apartment. She puts the money in a trust in Aaron's name.

When she leaves Claire and Aaron, she spends two weeks in a hotel before Sayid shows up with a handful of those house listing magazines they give away in grocery stores. They scan through them one by one. Kate can't seem to commit to any of them.

Finally she sets a few aside that are 'maybes' and says out loud that she'll go to see them Tuesday. She doesn't expect Sayid to show up Tuesday morning at some unseemly hour dangling coffee and sort-of stale bagels that she's sure still taste wonderful right in front of her, but she grabs the goods even as she's still eyeing him suspiciously. He laughs then. The closest thing she's seen to a real laugh from him. She smiles and lets him in.

As expected, he doesn't like any of her choices. Kate can't figure out why. There's nothing wrong with them. They're all big houses, already furnished and in perfect working order. Finally they reach the last house on her list and she's not even sure why she put it there. It's an old house - smaller than the rest but on more land. Most of it needs to be refurbished. The carpet is worn out and torn in places. The electricity and plumbing have their issues - the lights in two of the bedrooms don't work and the master bedroom shower only runs piping hot and leaks all over. The yard is a mess. There are holes in the drywall. Most of the kitchen appliances don't even work. The washer and dryer look like they're from the seventies. She's sure her mother had the exact same one in olive green. This one is orange.

Sayid likes this one. He doesn't say as much - he doesn't give much commentary on anything, but Kate is good at reading people and for all his training on how to be a calculated liar, it only took Kate a few days to know what Sayid was always thinking. They both had the same tells.

"I could never fix this," Kate says, her hands trailing idly over the countertops, "I wouldn't know where to start."

Sayid looks at her, then back at the ceiling which is stained around the fixtures. His frown is not as hopeless as it should be.

"I think you give yourself too little credit."

Kate wants to allude to the pot and the kettle but she decides better. They've both done a bad job at fixing things, but Sayid keeps trying. Kate figures it'll be good to have someone like him around to push her to do the same.

"I'll help," Sayid says finally when the silence stretches out between them. Kate merely nods, calls the realtor back in from the other room to let her know she'll take this one. The realtor looks confused at first but then she grins ear to ear and Kate knows she's probably getting a huge bonus for selling this one - it looks to have been on the market long enough.

"I still think you could have done it on your own," Sayid says as they leave. His shoulder bumps hers with each step down from the front porch. The steps creak and Kate's pretty sure she should be grateful for not putting her foot through one of them. They'll need to be fixed first. She finds herself hooking her arm in his towards the bottom.

"What's the fun in doing things alone?" she says.

It's not what he said, but it's what they both were thinking of anyways.

---

The morning routine is as follows now:

Stay in bed until The Price is Right is over. Make something that resembles a hearty breakfast or light lunch. Go for a run.

Try to remember to come back.

That last memo is Sayid's doing, whispered once casually over dinner together, and somehow never forgotten.

---

Sayid helped Kate bury Jack. This was how they first reconnected.

Hurley sent his body back. Kate's pretty sure Jack would have preferred to be buried on that island, but she won't question it. Claire still sees shadows where there aren't any and Sawyer has disappeared, not that she'd want to ask him for help with this. The others didn't really know Jack. Sayid volunteers before she has to ask and she's glad he does because she's not sure she would have been able to ask and yet, she couldn't imagine doing it on her own. Kate always ran before the bodies were cold while Sayid stayed and got good at planning funerals.

They tell Jack's family he was working for Doctors Without Borders, that he was killed by some rebel army, that he died helping people. It's the kind of story his family needs to hear. The kind of man they wanted Jack to be. Kate never had that kind of family. Neither did Sayid. They always expected the worst of the both of them. Maybe that's why it was so hard to watch them lower Jack's casket into the ground, watch people cry over his corpse.

They both know they'll receive no such fanfare. A sigh of relief maybe. Kate's hands shake because of this and maybe because she loved Jack, and Sayid reaches over to curl one of his around one of hers.

Afterwards, Margo is still crying when she tells Kate she just wants her to be happy and then glances over at Sayid in a way that is too open. Kate nods and says she is.

It could be a lie now but Kate knows it comes and goes.

---

After her run, Kate usually makes it up as she goes along.

Today, she's grocery shopping. Her lists always resemble a map because it's easier for her to remember things when they're in order from north to south. She wheels her way up and down aisles. Anything that's for her is written in red pen. Anything that's Sayid's is in blue. She doesn't know why she feels the need to keep her list segregated. She never did this before. When she shopped for Kevin, for Aaron, for Aaron and Claire, the list was always the same, everyone's items mixed in the same black ink.

The more Sayid inserts himself in her life the harder she tries to set boundaries. The more she sets the more obvious it becomes that it's all for show.

She stares at the yogurt. It's written twice on the list - once in blue and once in red. She buys one large container, just once and tries not to think about what that means.

---

The first time it happened it was when Kate left Aaron. This is a few months after they bury Jack.

She hadn't expected to stay with Claire and Aaron forever, but she never expected it to hurt this much all over again. She wakes up one morning and feels out of place. It stays with her through her morning routine of making breakfast for Aaron, to helping Claire do grocery shopping, to picking Aaron up from school all the way through watching his cartoons with him right before bed.

This time she doesn't wait until he's asleep to say goodbye. She waits a whole other day to be sure and when it still feels like someone else's life she breaks the news to Claire. Aaron takes it in stride because she's the boy Kate raised - she's taught him to be prepared for disappointment.

She realizes after she's rented a car that she has no where to go. She doesn't know why she picks Sayid's house besides the fact that it's close by. It has a little to do with the fact that she's always been able to trust him and that he doesn't talk much.

There's a spot of blood on his cuffs when he answers the door which Kate won't ask about.

"I left them."

Sayid's about to open his mouth and Kate already knows what he'll say - the polite offer for her to stay as long as she'd like is there on the tip of his tongue and she doesn't think she could handle it right then. So what she does - what Kate has always done when things get too close to something real - is to shut it up with something else.

She kisses him.

He's just like the rest. He complies, doesn't dare press for more, doesn't dare ask for an explanation, he just lets her take what she needs. Maybe it's a little disappointing at first - the way his hands stay at his sides, the way his kisses follow hers, but then her breath hitches and it sort of sounds like a sob even though it isn't and something breaks in him.

He surges forward, hands grabbing at her wrists, twisting her arms over her head and pushing her against the door. His kisses are demanding and they leave her dizzy and aching for more when his lips detach from hers and make their way down her neck. Her hands struggle against his hold, she'd give anything to grab onto his shoulders, to feel the warm skin of his back underneath his shirt, but the grip is bruising - stiff like handcuffs.

"You never think things through," he practically growls against her collarbone and Kate's eyes close at the sound. It's the same frustration that she feels with herself. The one thing she's always wished she could do - the one thing he has that she's always coveted is the ability to see the forest from the trees.

"No," she breathes out, lip pulled between her teeth, and she tries a smile though he can't see it. "But I'm still standing."

She can feel the smirk against her skin. "For now."

He hoists her up, and they barely make it to the couch.

In the morning, he's gone, but there's a note on the kitchen table that says he'll be back at four. There's a plate of breakfast - eggs and coffee that are still warm - next to it. She eats the food, rubbing at the bruises on her wrists as she does.

After breakfast, she checks herself into a hotel.

---

After she puts away her groceries, she does laundry.

He leaves a pile by the foot of the bed for her to sort and it took her a year to get him to do so. Before he would sneak down to the laundry room whenever he had time, but Kate has convinced him she doesn't mind, and she doesn't. She's better at removing blood and dirt stains than he is.

She still uses the orange washer and dryer. The frames are the same but the insides have been gutted and modernized. It's a little piece of the past that keeps Kate grounded, reminds her of what she's come from.

Teaches her to not repeat her mistakes.

---

With his help, it takes less than a year to get the house cleaned up. Sayid is there most of the time, though Kate soon finds she can do a lot of the work on her own. Of course, it works best when they're working together, and it's only with his help that the big projects get done. He knows a lot about construction - about repairs and patchwork. Kate is good with a sledge hammer and knowing how to demolish in clean strikes. Those big projects are give and take.

After the house has been renovated, when the walls and ceilings are clean and the pipes and lights are all in working order, Kate focuses on the yard. She never wanted a garden, but it's a hobby and she needs one if she's going to keep her sanity. It reminds her of being the island and the nostalgia doesn't sting as it could. There are enough good memories to focus on as she plants azaleas and rose bushes. Her peppers grow twice the size they should and the tomatoes taste better than anything Kate's ever tasted. It's beautiful outside and with the weather here, it's a year long chore.

After a year, the insides of the house are still bare. Kate will admit she's at a loss at how to make a house feel like a home. She has no childhood photos - they all burned in the fire - not that she would want to remember those times. Her adult life was all spent on the run. There is nothing but a tiny rubber plane to mark her past.

It's then that Sayid brings her things to help fill those voids - tiny souvenirs from wherever it is he goes. Kate puts them around the house, and then thinks to add fresh flowers from what's she's created outside. Together, they create something like a home.

---

She makes herself dinner.

She's learning how to cook, not from books or television but by taste. She has some skills that she picked up along the way, working at a diner, conning cops into marriage and farming in Australia. It just takes practice and she has the time. Tonight it's chicken and rice. She tucks in on the couch and watches some procedural crime dramas, timing herself to see how long it will take her to solve them.

Her eyes drift shut right as the partners with unresolved sexual tension get locked in a closet with what Kate's sure will be the serial killer. It's boring and predictable - both the television and her life now, but she can't seem to shake it. She doesn't run anymore, and this is the last thought in her head as she falls asleep.

---

And of course, in between the renovations and after they finish, there's still this thing between them that they won't name.

It happens again, in the hotel two days after the first time. And the again at his house after she's signed the papers. And every other time they're putting up drywall or pulling up flooring or painting. Sometimes it's intense like that first night and sometimes it's fun - the kind of thing she smiles and laughs through. It happens a lot and Kate finds it to be the only thing to look forward to.

The only thing that means much these days.

---

She has a nightmare. She's back on the island, back in those cages. But there is no Sawyer by her side. No Jack on the walkie talkie. The polar bears roam outside waiting to tear her limb from limb, and yet all she wants, more than anything is a key. A hole in the ceiling, a crack in the bars. She feels the ache to run in every limb. And then Sayid's there, key in hand. He lays it on the bars and tells her to take it, but she can't make herself move forward. The walls start moving closer and Sayid urges her to take it and run, but she doesn't.

She wakes up, gasping for air just as the walls press against her front and side. On TV, they're arresting the man in the elevator and sometimes it doesn't take a psychic to read between the lines. Kate reaches for the phone. She shakes as she dials, and it doesn't matter whether her eyes are open or close, she still sees those bars, still feels like the world is closing around her.

Sayid answers after one ring.

"Why am I still here?" Kate realizes she sounds a bit hysterical and this is a side of herself she's tried not to show Sayid. She can't help it. He's the only person she can call, the only person who will understand what it means. He sighs, like it was inevitable, and maybe it was. Kate can see him rubbing at the patch of skin over his right brow, the one that houses a hairline scar she's traced with her own fingers too many times.

"Where would you like to be?" Sayid says, answering a question with a question.

Kate can feel the bitter sting of tears at the back of her eyes. There is no answer for that. She can't imagine herself anywhere else. She can't understand how an ordinary life can feel so fulfilling - how shrubbery and morning game shows have filled the space that "borrowing" cars and stealing food used to sit. She can't understand how she know she's spending her life with the man on the other side of this phone, and she's never had to choke out the words 'i love you' for him to stay.

"Kate," he says softly.

He's not there every night. Some times he's gone for days at a time. Occasionally it will even be weeks. Kate never asks where he's going. She doesn't really care, but if she did and she asked, he would tell her. When he isn't working, he's here - in Kate's house - the one he picked out, the one he fixed and furnished with her.

"When are you coming home?" Kate whispers.

Sayid pauses. Kate hears the surprised rush of breath before he whispers. "Tomorrow."

"I'll be here," Kate says nodding though Sayid cannot see it.

And that's something Sayid can count on. If he knows it or not.

---

The night before was a night out of the house. Sayid takes her out to dinner and they see fireworks on the pier. It's beautiful, though Kate isn't sure what the occasion is. Fireworks can't happen every night. She asks Sayid about it and he just shrugs, tells her it doesn't matter and she thinks that's a good enough point.

When they get home, they sit on the back porch watching the stars. They're stretched out together on one lounge chair. Her head rests on his chest so that she can feel the words before he says them.

"I'd like to marry you."

Kate laughs because it's a silly thing to just blurt out, but then she looks up at him and sees he's serious. She expects a sense of panic to flood over her, but it never comes. It's only a tiny burst that comes and goes. "Why?"

Sayid is playing with a lock of her hair, concentrating on that task, and Kate thinks it may be one of the few times he's afraid to know what she's thinking. Usually he has no trouble facing her head on. "Because I'm old fashioned."

"I drugged my last husband," Kate blurts out because it's dangerous - marrying someone like Kate. Then again, most of Sayid's girlfriends and wives have died so maybe Kate should be the one worrying. Even with that thought in mind she can't manage any more fear. And now her lack of fear is making her scared.

Sayid raises an eyebrow and Kate can tell he's impressed but not worried nonetheless. "I don't see that happening again."

Kate shifts so that she's laying back down on his chest and murmurs, "I'll think about it."

---

He comes home the next night (by then, she barely remembers her nightmare) and stays through the morning, presses his lips to her shoulder and whispers, "Good morning, Katherine" when he realizes she's awake.

She smiles despite her history and braces herself for the next routine to come.

The Detective and the Doctor, for alliecat8

2011-12-17T23:58:30Z

Title: The Detective and the Doctor
Author: jaydblu
Recipient: alliecat8
Pairing Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Warnings: Spoilers through the final season
Summary: Jack finds himself having the most unlikely day with someone he would have never imagined.
Author notes: For alliecat8, whose most basic request was Sawyer with anyone.

“Doc…come into the light, Doc.” The quiet southern drawl broke the silence of the empty room.

“What?” Jack shook his head, trying to clear the fog and figure what was going on. He was being spoken to in a soothing and non-confrontational voice, which felt off for some reason, but he also had no idea what was going on.

“Are you feelin’ all right?”

Jack sat up slowly. “Is this the hospital?” His focus suddenly returned and he stared at the blond man who was watching him with an amused smile.

“From what I’ve heard, you should be familiar with bein’ in a hospital room.” He offered Jack his hand. “I’m Detective James Ford.” He flashed his badge. “So. You got your shit together yet? Are you ready to answer questions now?”

“No.” Jack shook his head. “No. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay. I’ll just go in the hall and give you a minute. You let me know when your brain pulls it all together.” James gave Jack a wink as he walked out of the room.

Jack’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t just from the adrenaline of bring disoriented. That detective was pretty hot, and that was something Jack didn’t ordinarily take notice of. He leaned back in the bed and looked around. This sure looked like his hospital. He looked at his hands; he wasn’t hooked up to anything, so it wasn’t too serious.

Peggy, a Nurse Practitioner Jack was familiar with, came in the room and smiled. “Are you feeling okay now, Dr. Shephard?”

“Yeah. I feel fine. What’s up?”

“Well, I checked you earlier and felt you didn’t have a concussion, so that’s good.” She was going through the process of checking his pupils again as she spoke. “You must have just been really tired, so we let you rest. You’re free to go whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah okay, but what’s up with the police?”

“Oh, him.” She grinned. “He’s pretty sexy, huh. That’s not what you were asking me though, is it? Do you remember what happened?”

“Sort of…” Jack shook his head. “I finished a shift, and I was walking out to my car…” he felt confused again. “Then…” he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “Then, I don’t know.”

“You got blindsided, apparently, by some addict who was trying to bolt from here. The cops have him.”

James Ford walked back into the room. “Is it comin’ back to you, Doc? I heard you in here talking to your pretty little nurse. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk to me, huh.”

“No, no.” Jack reached up to run his hand through his hair and realized he had a bandage on his forehead. He pulled the tape back and felt underneath. Once he realized it was just a scrape, he taped the bandage back.

James smiled at that. “So. I just need to get a statement from you real quick. Your assailant should be processed by the time we’re done, and then I’m going to take you to the station to try to ID him, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah. Sure. But I can drive myself.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Doc. I’ll get you to where you need to go.”

Down at the police station, Jack stood at the glass trying to see if any of the men in the lineup looked familiar. He almost visibly jumped as he looked straight into the face of the man he had revived on the flight, the ungrateful junkie. Was he the one? He recovered and looked at James. “Which one is it?”

The shorter detective who had joined them, apparently James’ partner, snorted. “Uh, I think that may be why you’re here.”

Jack tried to suppress a smile. “Right. None of them look familiar.” The lie came out easily, and he wondered why. He was still shaken up at seeing the surly face behind the glass and wondering how small LA actually was.

“Yeah, I guess since he knocked you down from the back, that is probably the case.” James was watching him curiously. “So you’re sure? None of them?”

“No.” He lied again. “Nobody.” It couldn’t have been the junkie, could it? Wasn’t he already in jail?

“Okay, then.” James patted Jack’s shoulder. “Thanks for the statement and coming down here, we appreciate it.”

“Uh, sure. Sorry it didn’t help.” Jack found himself staring at James, wondering if his shoulder had just been patted or rubbed. “You’re taking me back to my car, right?”

The shorter detective looked surprised. “You drove him here, Jim?”

“Aw settle down, Miles. I had to make sure he was okay.”

“Yeah, right. Okay for what?” Miles raised his eyebrows as he turned and walked away.

James ran his hand through his hair with a smirk on his face as he watched his partner stomp off. He looked back at Jack, and his expression had changed. “Well, Dr. Shephard…”

“Just…just call me Jack.”

“Okay, Jack.” James gestured with his head as he shared a dimpled smile with Jack. “Let’s get you back to your car.”

The drive back to the hospital was quiet, except for the low sound of the radio. They were a few blocks away when James looked over at Jack. “I could use a drink. You up for one?”

“Aren’t you on the clock?”

“Not any more.”

Jack shifted in his seat. “Why?” He was genuinely curious. James seemed to have a familiarity with him that he couldn’t quite figure out.

James shrugged. “Why not? You’re in the car, you’re off the clock too, right? No big deal. Besides.” He turned to look at Jack. “You seem kind of uptight.”

Jack frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be? I was almost mugged today.”

“That I know, Jack. I don’t mean right now necessarily, you just give off the air of always being uptight.” James looked amused, again, and that pissed Jack off.

“Stop the damned car. I’ll just walk back.”

“And there you go.” James gestured to him. “But I ain’t just lettin’ you out here. I’ll get you back to your car, then.”

“Thanks, James.” Jack said sarcastically. “Thanks for doing what you’re supposed to do.”

“No problem.” James shrugged. “I just thought you’d want a drink. Sorry I offended you, I guess.”

“It…”Jack hesitated as he tried to relax. “It just sounded like a… proposition. I know that’s not how you meant it.”

“A proposition?” James started laughing. “I just asked you if you wanted to get a fucking drink.” He smacked the steering wheel. “You must really think you’re all that, huh.” He stopped the car at a red light and pulled off his sunglasses as he looked at Jack. “Okay.”

Jack frowned. “Okay, what?”

“Okay, it was a proposition.” James shrugged. “You up for it?”

Jack just stared at him. What? He shook his head, dumbfounded. “I…”

The light turned green and James put his sunglasses on and started driving again. “It’s okay to just have a drink, Jack.”

The reaction of his body, not logic, took Jack’s brain, and he found himself saying what he was actually thinking. “Yeah. I’m up for it.”

The drive to James’ apartment was a blur to Jack. He stared out the window the whole way there, replaying the conversation in his head, and wondered if he had misinterpreted everything.

Once they got inside James’ apartment, he found that he hadn’t. James made Jack the drink he requested, whiskey on the rocks, and before Jack could take his second swallow, James had taken the glass from him and shoved him back against the couch and began kissing him roughly and aggressively.

Jack responded, even though he was surprised by the quick turn of events, by kissing the detective back and not even thinking twice about it. As far as he was concerned, the whole day had a surreal quality to it, and this was no exception.

When James finished bruising his lips with rough kisses, and unbuckling the belt on Jack’s suit pants and pulling them down without bothering with the buttons, Jack helped him by kicking them off. He needed this, wanted this, and felt like he had wanted it since he opened his eyes at the hospital and saw this sexy blue eyed stranger looking at him. It was an odd jolt to his brain to realize that, but he dismissed it and went with what was going on now. Because what was going on now was really good.

He shut his eyes as he felt James’ hand firmly grip his cock through his underwear. “Now what do you think we should do about this?” James didn’t wait for an answer as he let go to pull Jack’s underwear down. Moments later, his mouth was all over Jack’s cock, and Jack gasped at the sensation. This was obviously not the first time James had done this. This man was taking him on like a pro.

And when Jack came, he yelled like he never had before. It was an incredible release, something he felt like he had been waiting his entire life for. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths as the feeling of satisfaction filled his entire body. He opened his eyes again and looked at James, who was looking very pleased with himself.

“You enjoyed that, huh.” James smiled as he licked his lips.

“Yeah.” Jack was still clutching the couch. “I enjoyed that. So.” He looked down, suddenly embarrassed to look James in the eye. “I don’t usually do this.”

James laughed. “For some reason, I am not surprised at that little revelation.”

Jack relaxed his hold on the couch. “Well, do you want me to…?”

“No, I’m good. I’m thinkin’ you needed that more than I ever will.” He winked.

“Oh. Okay.” Jack cleared this throat. “Well, I’m pretty tired, so…whenever you want to take me back to my car, I’m ready.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” Sawyer dragged his thumb against Jack’s lower lip. “You just rest though, for a little bit.”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. He went from feeling pretty tired to completely worn out. “Okay. Just for a little bit.” He curled up on the couch closed his eyes, relaxing as he felt James pull a cover over him.

“Thanks, James,” he whispered.

Jack awoke with a start. He felt uncomfortable and clammy, and he sat up, wondering where in the hell he was.

“Jack.”

He glanced up and found himself looking at Kate, who was looking grimy and exhausted, and he remembered. They were on the Island, in the temple in that weird cave, and he had drifted off to sleep after being smacked around again. How he was able to just fall asleep after being beaten like that escaped him.

“Your head is bleeding.”

He stood up slowly and waved Kate off. “I’m okay.” He looked across the room and saw Sawyer glaring angrily back at him, which threw him for a loop. He felt a familiar jolt run through him as vivid visions ran through his head, and it felt as if the world had stopped. Did he just have a dream about Sawyer?

He looked back at Kate. “How long was I sleeping?”

Kate wrinkled her brow and shook her head. “I didn’t see you sleeping.”

He shook his head and frowned. He didn’t think he had been knocked out cold, so he must have been sleeping. The Island was fucking with his head again because that had to be the most unlikely thing that would ever happen, ever. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

Into the Abyss, for tellshannon815

2011-12-16T17:47:48Z

Title: Into the Abyss
Author: alliecat8
Recipient: tellshannon815
Characters: James (Jim, Sawyer), James/Juliet
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Sawyer has some secrets to deal with in the 70’s.
A/N: Merry Christmas! I hope this fits your wishes! Also, thanks to my beta.

He knew how much they trusted him the day he asked if he could go to the mainland on the sub and his request had been granted. Normally only a carefully chosen team of longtime Dharma employees was allowed to ferry goods back and forth, as well as to take the occasional pregnant woman away from the island or bring new recruits in. They had to be careful because in 1976, years after their work on the island had begun, there were secrets to be carefully guarded.

Just as he’d suspected there had always had been.

He’d had a reason for asking Horace if he could make that run, though. He concocted a story about having overheard several of the regular group conspiring to escape and sell their secrets, which would of course bring unwanted scrutiny upon the island and Dharma which appeared to the uninitiated to be simply a utopian cult that lived “somewhere out there” in the vast regions of the sea.

He’d asked early so there’d be time for his request to filter up the chain of command and then back down to him. He waited, annoyed and impatient but aware that every society was a bureaucracy in some way and this one was no different. If the answer had been “no” he didn’t know what he’d have done – muscle his way onto the sub and figure out a plausible explanation later, probably – but now that he’d worked his way up to Head of Security he wasn’t particularly surprised when he got a “yes.”

He had a couple of secrets too. That’s why he had to get off the island.

“You can’t go back,” Juliet insisted the night before the sub sailed. “It’s too dangerous. They could find out who you really are –“

“How?” he’d asked. “The sub docks in California, and in 1976 I was…”

She stirred, wrapped her arms around him from behind. “I know. You were an innocent little boy living in Tennessee.”

His spine stiffened under her touch. “And Alabama. Don’t forget about Alabama. I sure ain’t ever gonna.”

Juliet began to sway gently against him, like a mother rocking a fitful child. “Is that why you’re going? You want to be in Jasper on the day it happened?”

He was silent. He knew what she was going to say next.

“You can’t change the past, James. Some things are just meant to be.”

But she didn’t know that. She believed it, but she didn’t know. And if he tried and failed, what difference would it make? If he succeeded, everything would change. He knew that. But he also knew that Juliet was his destiny, and he’d meet her again, perhaps this time not as a con artist/convict, but as the owner of a prosperous bookstore. She’d come to the register with one of his favorite books in hand and they’d get to talking, maybe he’d ask her out for coffee….

He fell asleep with that fantasy in his head, and his dreams were good.

********

“I can’t talk you out of it?” Juliet’s face was wan and worried in the morning light.

“Baby, I love you,” was all he said. Then he took his pack and headed for the dock.

Once they were in California, he made a show of participating in the necessary errands, then he proposed to take the guys out for a few drinks. After the first few, James began buying and before long his shipmates didn’t know whether they were in California or on the island or on the moon. That’s when he slipped away.

In 1976 it was amazingly easy to catch a flight to Alabama. Hell, they didn’t even require pictures on their driver’s licenses, and it was a cinch to pickpocket one that described him almost perfectly. He used the Master Charge he’d found in the stolen wallet to book a standby ticket. He didn’t want to take someone else’s seat. That would change the past. He would be careful to change as little as possible, right down to turning the wallet in to lost-and-found when he returned to California. The dude he’d stolen it from would hardly have time to miss it.

He paid the cab driver with some of the money in the wallet when he found the house his mother had fled to after she left his father. This was where they’d been living when she did the Bad Thing with Mr. Sawyer that had led to the Worst Thing (he still couldn’t think of it except in the abstract terms of a little boy) – his Uncle Doug’s house in Jasper. Only Uncle Doug wasn’t home that Wednesday night, he was at church as always. James’ dad would have known that.

He stood on the sidewalk and looked at the house for a long time. That house was his nightmare. How could he enter it again? He must have been in shock for those minutes that he stood there, for they cost him dearly. He didn’t see that the front door was splintered open, didn’t hear the screams and pleas of his mother or his father’s violent shouts. He snapped out of it when he heard the shot.

He was too late. Something had held him in its thrall until the deed was done.

You can’t change the past.

Yet still he entered the house. He was careful not to look at the body of his mother; he’d overheard relatives saying that she’d been shot in the head and had died instantly. There was nothing he could do for her. So he walked down the hall. That hall must’ve been a thousand miles long, it seemed to him, and the closer he got to the cozy little bedroom his mother had made for him, the harder it was to move his legs. He was walking through mental quicksand. He even said a prayer that he’d be too late for his father, too. He didn’t know how he’d face it, otherwise.

God always answers prayers. This time the answer was no.

James stopped just outside of the lighted doorway, slightly to the side of the frame so that little James wouldn’t see his shoes. Also to protect himself from his father’s bullets.

Change the past as little as possible, he thought. Then, carefully, he looked.

James looked into his father’s eyes.

He was about to do something very dangerous, he knew that. His very existence depended on the outcome. But he’d needed to know this all his life.

“He’s under the bed,” the older James mouthed silently.

His father, who already had the gun to his head, faltered. He started to speak, but James put his finger to his lips. His father was looking at him like he was some sort of phantasm; perhaps the angel of death who’d come for his wife. He didn’t move; frozen, just as James had been on the crumbling sidewalk outside of this pitiful little house. But his mind was working. James could see it in his eyes.

He had three choices. He could haul the boy out and shoot him too. Older James knew that if he did this, he’d be snuffed out of existence and the world would change. For the most part, it would change for the better.

Or his father could get James out of the house. He could tell him to run, or he could take him and perhaps use him as a hostage if the police had arrived. James figured that if he lived through that he’d be the same fucked-up asshole he’d always been, but his father would still be alive, maybe to kill again some other day, or maybe to pass a vendetta against the Real Mr. Sawyer on to his son. If that happened, the world really wouldn’t change all that much, would it?

There was one more way. James watched his father lower the gun as he weighed his options. Something inside of James loosened and fell away, for now he knew that his father had thought about him before he ended his own life. For better or worse, he’d thought about his son. James had never known if this had been the case in the original scenario or not, whether he’d mattered to his father or if he’d never considered him at all.

Their eyes were locked; James’ eyes full of questions and anguish, his father’s full of confusion. And remorse. Remorse like James had never seen, not even when Jack had failed to save Boone. Jack had healed, in time, but the remorse James saw in his father’s eyes was the kind that would last a lifetime. The kind that would eat your soul and leave you empty inside. There would be no recovery. And so, like a terminal patient facing unendurable pain, he chose the third way. He again raised the gun and pulled the trigger. His body slumped onto the bed, his blood soaking into the bedspread with baseballs and soccer balls and footballs printed on it, the one James had begged his mother to buy for his new bedroom.

The blood would soak through for a long time. There was so much of it. By the time the policeman found little James cowering under the bed, he would have already been baptized by his father’s blood. He would always be his father’s son. He would be bad, and he would mainline remorse for a long, long time.

He left as quietly as he’d come. He’d changed nothing, here in the past. But perhaps, just perhaps, now that he had the answer he wanted, he could change the future. He didn’t have to be just like the man on the bed.

Now he knew that his father had thought about him. If he couldn’t change the past, he could at least see it. And he’d learned all he needed to know.

********

When the sub crew demanded answers about where he’d been, James just smiled an enigmatic smile. “I guess I got a little lost,” he said sheepishly. But he’d made sure to put the package in the front pocket of his jumpsuit so the others could see the bulge of it. They’d know soon enough why he’d mysteriously disappeared. At least, they’d think they knew.

Back on the island, he hid the ring box carefully. He’d save it for the perfect time. A full moon, a blanket on the beach, their bodies entwined…then he’d produce the ring and place it on her finger. He was a changed man now, strong and worthy, and he would love his wife eternally. He would never do anything that would make him feel the same kind of hopeless remorse he’d seen in his father’s eyes. This he knew with absolute clarity.

For he had looked into the abyss of his father’s soul, and the abyss had looked back.

Perhaps sometimes when the two meet, they find not chaos, but understanding.

End

the curse, for sunsetdawn20

2011-12-16T17:36:20Z

Title: the curse
Author: janie_tangerine
Recipient: sunsetdawn20
Pairing/Characters: Boone/Richard, Jacob
Rating: PG13
Word count: 5600 ca
Warnings: uhm, one of the characters is a ghost. I think that’s it. Set in late S1 but implies having seen the entire series.
Summary: “I know that his touch killed you because he did the same to me, once. But I fear it was for opposite reasons.” or, where Boone might be dead and Richard might be immortal, but the reason is the same and the result isn’t that different after all.
Author notes: for the prompts: being touched by Jacob is like the mark of Cain, plus angst, plus rare ship and Boone & Richard from the favorite characters section. Also, there’s some kind of wacky theorizing going on and I took some liberties with the whole Jacob-touched-people-from-flight-815 business, though canon never said that it didn’t go that way. Title stolen from a Josh Ritter song. Sorry for the lack of sexytimes but it didn’t want to go there – I hope it still fits the bill. :)

The Lord said, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground (…) You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”

Cain said to the Lord, “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”

But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Then the put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him. So Cain went out from the Lord’s presence and lived in the land of Nod, east of Eden.

Genesis 4:10-17

***

Damn, Boone thinks, where is it?

He had the damn book with him when he went to buy coffee at the airport’s bar, but now that he has brought Shannon hers and has one hand free, he has realized that he must have lost it somewhere between there and their gate. He can’t even remember if he left it at the counter – maybe he did, but maybe he had put it between his elbow and his side and if fell down on his way back. In that case, good luck to him – he’s never going to find it again.

As if this day couldn’t have started any worse. He sighs, takes a sip from his coffee cup and heads for the bar again. But it isn’t there and according to the waitress they didn’t find it on the counter.

He wonders if he has time to buy himself another one at the airport’s bookshop – he isn’t sure that he can take such a long flight with Shannon next to him and no excuse to not pay her attention.

After last night, the one thing he actually needs is to sit as far away from Shannon as possible, but he already knows he’s fooling himself. He needs that, sure, but he won’t sit anywhere else, and he knows that too.

Then someone touches his shoulder.

“Excuse me? I think this belongs to you.”

Boone turns and finds himself face to face with a man that has to be over thirty but younger than forty; blonde, blue eyes, nice smile, and Boone’s copy of Watership Down in his right hand.

“Yes, it does. Where –”

“You were using your elbow to keep it still, but it fell down at some point before you went out of the door. I picked it up, but then I couldn’t find you.”

Boone nods and takes the book. “Thank you so much. I have a long flight, I was hoping to finish it.”

“It’s a good one. I hope you like it,” the man says, and then goes back to what’s presumably his table and his coffee. There’s a book next to the paper cup; something by Flannery O’Connor. Boone can’t make out the title, but it’s not as if it’s his business. He takes another sip from his coffee cup before running back towards his gate. They should board in a short while if he isn’t wrong, and the last thing he needs is giving Shannon reason to snap at him for being late.

He has a feeling that the next eight hours are going to be the worst of his life.

--

Sometimes he wonders if he should have let Jack cut the damn leg.

Maybe he could have survived after all. Of course, his days of running in the park would have been over, but maybe he’d still be alive.

The afterlife is not what it’s cracked up to be.

Mostly, it’s such a lonely business.

One would have thought that if there had to be an afterlife, it would be something better than being a ghost stranded on a crazy island where no one can see you. He has tried to hang around the camp, but after seeing his own funeral he decided that he couldn’t take it.

He has gone through half-hearted attempts to contact Shannon and Jack and then he gave up. No one can see him or feel him, so why bothering?

He spends about a week wandering around the godforsaken piece of rock. He learns that if he looks down in water surfaces he can see himself, but if he tries to touch the water, his hands goes right through it as if it wasn’t there at all. At least his face isn’t covered in blood – there’s a nasty scar on his forehead and one on his cheek, but that’s it. He’s only wearing the torn jeans he had on when he died. No shirt or else. Then again, why should he care about modesty? No one can see him, after all.

Not much different from when I was alive, right? , he thinks bitterly more than once during that week.

If he ever runs into some random people from the camp, they don’t see him.

Of course they don’t.

After that week, he decides that sticking in the camp’s proximities won’t work. He’s already bored to tears, but the idea of going back there makes him sick, so he figures he might take a walk inland. He has nothing but time, right?

His feet don’t bleed or hurt while he walks, even if they’re bare.

He hates this. He wishes he felt pain or anything else.

He doesn’t.

--

Boone momentarily forgets his problems when he follows a couple of people he has never seen before to a village.

He isn’t sure he can process it.

There are houses in the middle of this island. Houses with electricity, swings outside them and children on the swings, and people living in them.

The only solution he can come up with is that they have to be those Others people were discussing back on the beach, but the last thing he’d have suspected would have been that they would live in a properly furnished village inside this stupid island.

If he was alive, he’d wish for a drink.

But he isn’t, and he has no idea what to do. Walk inside? Gather information? And what would he do with it, since he’s a ghost that no one can see and therefore couldn’t communicate it to anyone? Movies make afterlife sound a lot better than it is – in movies, ghosts know how to make themselves be seen or walk in someone’s dreams. Boone doesn’t even know if he could do that, and in that case, he wouldn’t know where to start from.

It’s really not ironic when the story of your life is the story of your death.

Then he notices someone walking towards him. He doesn’t try to hide – it’s not as if this person is ever going to see him, right?

Wrong, because the man stops dead in his tracks as soon as he glances at the tree in front of which Boone is standing.

Boone’s eyes widen as he stares back at the other man. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes (and they’re nice eyes indeed, Boone thinks, with those long eyelashes; the shape is also quite lovely, not too wide and not too narrow), thin lips, lithe body, not tanned but not overly pale either.

And as the man’s eyes widen, Boone knows that there’s no other explanation.

“You can see me?” Boone whispers, his own voice sounding strange to his own ears. He hasn’t talked since he left the beach.

“You’re dead?” the man asks in return. Boone gives him a tiny, shy nod.

He expects the man to run.

He comes closer instead.

--

“I should have understood it the second I saw you,” the man says after a minute or so. It felt longer, though. A lot longer.

“What – what do you mean?”

The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He shakes his head. “You have no idea, don’t you?”

Boone is positive that he doesn’t.

As usual. Being out of the loop is nothing new.

“About what?”

“You are one of the plane crash survivors. Were.”

“I – how do you even know?”

“We are more informed than you would imagine. But that’s not about it. Before you boarded your plane… by chance, did you meet a blonde man, around my age? He has blue eyes. And he has touched you. Even a small thing. A small pat on shoulder, maybe.”

“I did,” Boone answers, remembering the man who gave him back his book.

“I knew. I could feel it.”

Boone is about to ask what this is all about, but then the man in front of him raises his head and meets his eyes again. “I know that his touch killed you because he did the same to me, once. But I fear it was for opposite reasons.”

--

If Boone still had blood running through his veins, it would be turning cold right now.

As things are, he merely stands still, feeling as if someone had taken the ground from under his feet. He can’t strictly feel it, sure; he can only perceive that there’s something solid under his soles and that’s it. But right now, he feels as if he’s floating on thin air, and it isn’t a nice sensation at all.

“I’m not sure I’m following you,” he whispers, his voice so thin he can barely hear it. The man gives him a slight shrug and nods towards their left.

“Come with me. There is a small clearing over there. I can explain you everything then. You should know why you’re dead, at least.”

Boone doesn’t object and follows the man for a couple of minutes. They stop at the top of a small hill, from which the entire freaky village is visible. Boone sits down, following the other; damn, he needs to learn his name, at least.

The grass under his legs feels like sandpaper used to feel.

“What’s your name?” he asks. “I might as well know it, since you’re the one person that can see me on this entire piece of rock.”

“There is another for sure. But that’s not the point. I’m Richard.”

“Boone. So, what is this being touched business about?”

“The man you met… he’s named Jacob. He lives here. He has… I don’t know how to define it. To be entirely honest, I don’t know what he does exactly, or how he does it. He never told me. But when he touched me, he made me… you could say ageless.”

“Ageless?”

“I was born in the nineteenth century,” Richard replies, quietly, his eyes not blinking, and Boone wishes he could afford to assume that Richard is insane.

Being born in the nineteenth century and looking barely forty isn’t stranger than being a ghost that only one person can see.

“So… he turned you into… someone immortal?”

“To be fair, I asked for it. I never should have,” Richard whispers quietly. “But… this has happened for a long while. Every time someone arrives here, Jacob searches for a replacement. Whether it happens or not… it requires a death for the process to be set in motion.”

Boone isn’t sure he wants to know what this entire thing stands for. “Replacement?”

“He has wanted someone to take his place here for a while. But that doesn’t concern you, I’m afraid.”

“Right. Because I was the required death, wasn’t I?”

“If it consoles you, it’s… more or less random.”

“Random in which sense?”

“There are certain people that… can be considered for replacements. In your group, it’s no more than seven or eight.”

“So everyone else is good for… taking one for the team?”

Richard looks at him one second, narrowing his eyes before giving him a nod. “It’s put in very crude terms, but that’s accurate.”

Boone thinks that he wants to cry. So not only he wasn’t good enough for whatever beauty contest this place is hosting, but among the other forty people that aren’t, as well, he’s the one who has to die, and suffering like hell, on top of that?

“Did you say that you regret asking him to make you immortal?” He has to think about something else. It sounds as good as any other argument.

Richard shakes his head and stands up, brushing grass from his trousers.

“It’s a long story and I have business to attend. But if you want to find me tomorrow, I usually come here in the late afternoon.”

He’s gone and has disappeared into the forest before Boone can object.

Boone sighs, running a hand through his too-clean hair (of course it’s clean – it can’t get dirty if he’s not alive, right?) and figuring that he might as well stay here. If Richard is the one person on this island who can see him or talk to him, there’s no sense in going anywhere else. Of course he could take a walk through the village, but already seeing it from here makes his skin crawl.

He closes his eyes, knowing that it’s useless because the dead don’t sleep. He waits.

--

“You were here the whole time?” Richard asks the next afternoon. Boone gives him a half-shrug, not bothering to move from his current position.

“I’m tired of walking aimlessly around here. No one I meet recognizes me, if I meet them altogether. Why should I go anywhere else?”

Richard nods and drops sitting next to him.

“Thanks for coming,” Boone says then. He figures he owes Richard at least that.

“Why should you thank me?”

“No one forced you to come here and you told me enough. You didn’t have to.”

Richard’s lips curl up, slightly. “Believe me, I can use some different company. That said, I could bring you where Jacob is, if you want to have a talk to him yourself. But I’m afraid he might only confuse you further.”

“Why, has he been doing that with you for the last century or so?”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Richard whispers. “But it’s the way he is. If you want a straight answer, you will never have it. I should have known better.”

“Than asking for eternal life?”

“Seeing the world change and fade and everyone you know disappear while you don’t change at all isn’t as good as it might seem. Of course, I can only guess that dying the way you did isn’t anything you wished to experience, either.”

Boone snorts. That’s an understatement. “At least he could have made me die quickly and painlessly, if I had to.”

Richard doesn’t try to justify this Jacob person.

Good.

Because it’s totally not what Boone needs right now.

“I suppose you couldn’t tell me what he even is, could you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that myself.”

Exactly the answer Boone had expected.

Whatever Jacob is, appartently he likes to keep people in the dark.

--

Richard comes back the next day – Boone hadn’t expected it at all. He had stayed in the clearing only because he has realized that he’s tired. How being dead means he can be tired is an entire other question, but he has decided that there’s no point wandering around. He has been running after Shannon half of his life and after Locke half of the time on this island, it only gained him a death that was everything but merciful, and he has spent his time from then wandering aimlessly.

He’s allowed to rest for a while, considering that his afterlife is everything but peaceful. If only at least it was the good kind of different from his real life, but no such luck.

“I didn’t think you would be still here.”

“I don’t exactly have a particular place to go.”

“Actually, it’s strange. If everyone who dies on this island was like you, you would have quite the company.”

“So what, I’m a special snowflake now?”

Richard raises an eyebrow, as if he has never heard that expression before, but then he nods. Boone figures it got the point across.

“I wouldn’t know why. There are many things I don’t know, even if by now I should.”

Boone thinks he can relate even too well.

“How did you understand at once that I had been… touched?”

Richard sighs. He looks thoughtful. His eyes are really something, Boone thinks. He shouldn’t notice that kind of thing now, but he can’t help it. Not when they’re fixed on some not defined point in the horizon, and when Richard barely blinks. He can’t help staring.

“I just… felt it. It was a strange sensation. As if there was something making you and me at least somewhat alike.”

“But is there some reason why I’m not… wherever I should be?”

“Either he likes you more than the others, or the opposite. Surely you must have made some kind of impression,” Richard says. “Then again, I… can’t imagine him disliking you.”

“Excuse me? I died. I can’t believe he liked me.”

“That’s not the point. You aren’t the first, though I hope that you are be the last. What I mean is that I have known him for two centuries, as much as you can know someone like him. He isn’t the kind who doesn’t let you have a peaceful death because he feels like it. He’s only cruel with people he despises. And I highly doubt you would make him feel that. I know his despise. If it was that, I’d have felt it.”

“That doesn’t reassure me much.”

“I wasn’t aiming for that.”

And it’s a good thing. Boone isn’t sure he could have taken it.

--

“You really do like it here, don’t you?”

“Not particularly, but I don’t feel like being around people I know if they can’t see me. And I don’t care for the rest of this island. It’s as good as any other place.”

Richard doesn’t comment either way and Boone is more or less thankful for it.

“But if you want me to go… I mean, this is your hiding place or whatever, if I’m… haunting it and you don’t want to I can go. It makes no difference either way.”

The part about it not making a difference isn’t completely true, since he likes the clearing well enough, but Boone is still technically haunting Richard’s place. More or less.

“It’s all right,” Richard replies. “I don’t mind. And it’s nice to have some company.”

One of the things Boone would always have liked to have is the ability to bury his feelings under a good amount of denial. He has been trying for half of his life and it hasn’t worked at all. Now he wishes he could ignore that when Richard told him that he didn’t have to get lost he had felt… good. Maybe even a bit grateful.

It’s pathetic.

So pathetic.

Then again, story of his life. It’s ridiculous that when someone does something nice for him, whatever it is, Boone feels this stupid, idiotic relief.

They don’t say anything else until Richard leaves one hour later or so. But it’s the good kind of silence.

Boone doesn’t mind it. What he minds is the silence that makes him company when no one else is around.

He stares at the village, the little houses all put in neat rows. If he didn’t know better, he could be in any small village in the central US.

Not as if you’ll have any home of that kind anymore, he thinks, and forces himself to either change subject or think nothing at all.

--

It’s an accident. A couple of days later, as Richard sits next to him, his arm brushes against Boone’s. It should have been nothing – the two times Boone tried touching someone, his hand went right through them and the other person didn’t even flinch.

It’s different. Richard flinches back and Boone does the same, because – it had felt real. Richard’s arm had felt like an arm and hadn’t… gone through him or some similar ghost nonsense.

They stare at each other for half a minute before Boone gathers the guts to speak.

“Could – could I?” he asks, his voice unsure.

“Yes,” Richard whispers. “I’m sorry, it took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting –”

“I wasn’t expecting it either. No offense taken.” Boone tries to keep his tone light, but he fails completely and opts to reach out instead. He slowly, slowly moves his hand until it touches Richard’s wrist, lightly. He feels bare skin instead of nothing. It’s warm, he thinks as he moves his thumb, searching for Richard’s pulse.

It’s there. Steady and strong, and Boone swallows. He doesn’t move when Richard’s hand turns up and does the same. He finds no pulse, obviously, but it seems as if this works both ways.

“You’re cold,” Richard observes.

Boone hadn’t known, but he isn’t surprised.

“You’re not,” he replies. “This isn’t – how is it even – it’s because he still touched the both of us?”

“It could be,” Richard agrees. Suddenly his eyes narrow for a second, but then he shakes his head, whatever he was thinking obviously discarded.

“What was –”

“It was nothing. For a second I thought you might not be what you seemed, but… you couldn’t be him.” He looks about to say more, but then he bites his lower lip and doesn’t add anything more . “Don’t mind me.”

Boone isn’t too sure about this – what the hell did Richard think he was? – but he lets that go. He’s too stunned about what they have just found out to worry about anything else. To be entirely truthful, if this is some other piece of crap about rules that work on this island, he isn’t sure that he wants to know.

“Are you sure it isn’t something I should know?” he asks anyway, unable to stop himself.

“I am not sure I should make your afterlife even more complicated,” Richard replies, and Boone almost smiles at that. They’re still touching. Boone pretends not to have noticed. It’s too good a sensation to give it up.

“Good, because I’m not even sure that I want to know.”

Richard leaves half an hour later. When he takes away his hand, Boone suppresses the urge to shiver.

--

He thinks, what have I done?

He knows that if Richard is right then he hasn’t done anything to deserve dying, or at least nothing worse than another thirty-nine people or so, but if he’s here there has to be some reason.

The point is that there’s only one solution he comes up with and that he can’t escape from. But he can’t believe that he’d deserve to wander through this piece of land forever because he couldn’t push Shannon out of the door the moment she tried to kiss him. He failed to resist that temptation, of course, but he’s sure that out of all the survivors, there must have been someone with worst skeletons in their closets.

He would have never acted on it if she hadn’t made a move first, and at least about this he’s sure that he isn’t deluding himself. The entire thing was at least half her fault, so how come it’s him being stuck here?

Not that he’s ever going to get any answers.

--

“On the first day you said you could bring me to see this Jacob. Which means… he actually lives somewhere? As in.. a real person would?”

“He does.” Richard asks. Boone tries to resist the urge to reach out and touch him.

“I figured… well, if he couldn’t see me it would be the worst joke of the last two centuries, since I’m like this because of him. If he’s somewhere on this island, couldn’t I talk to him?”

“I already told you, you could,” Richard agrees. “But you most probably won’t get answers.”

“I know. But considering that the alternative is rotting here forever, I might as well try.”

“That’s what I’ve thought for the last eighty years or so. Still, I can bring you there.”

“Good,” Boone replies, and attempts to stand up.

Considering that he hasn’t been standing on his legs for… a long time, it’s ridiculous that for a second he can’t find his balance. He shouldn’t need to find his balance.

Then Richard’s hand grabs his arm, steadying him.

“Are you all right?”

No, Boone wants to scream, but he nods instead. When Richard’s fingers aren’t touching his arm anymore, he feels cold.

It’s ridiculous. He hasn’t felt warm or cold or anything in between since he died, except whenever Richard touched him.

This makes no sense at all.

--

“How old were you?” Richard asks as they walk through a jungle that looks the same everywhere and feels like cardboard under his feet.

“Twenty-two. I would have been twenty-three in a few months.”

Richard swallows, looking down at the ground. He seems pensive.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. He isn’t what I would call considerate in his choices, most of the time.”

Boone doesn’t have anything to reply to that.

He would have liked to live a long life, indeed, but that’s not happening.

--

They stop in a clearing when the sun sets. Richard says that he doesn’t like to be among these particular trees at night. Boone doesn’t question it. The man might be immortal, but no one says that he can’t be killed, and he’s the one who knows how this island works. Certainly not him.

He sits down in front of a small fire Richard builds, and says nothing.

“I keep trying to make sense of it.” He doesn’t even know why he says it, but maybe it’s only because he can’t stand to be silent much longer. Not when for the last week or so he has only talked to Richard, whenever he was around.

“Did you manage it?”

“No. Everything I come up with sounds ridiculous. I mean, it’s not as if I died without regrets, but who doesn’t? I’m not – I’m not special. The only special thing about me is that I’m here.”

“Do you think that little of yourself?” Richard asks, and what gets to Boone is that… he merely sounds curious. Not as if he’s sorry for him.

At least.

“I never was the special snowflake. I never even wanted to be one. It’s just the way it is, no point in crying about it.”

Richard doesn’t look too convinced, but he doesn’t push it.

“He won’t take anything back, will he? Of… whatever he has given me.” Boone asks after a short while.

“I’m not sure if he can,” Richard replies. “Or at least, I’m not sure that he could do that for me, and I know better than asking. You don’t ask someone to take back something that they gave you because you asked them. Not when it’s something as huge as what I asked for. Not when only a god could do it.”

Boone can understand it, more or less. He only wishes he had had the same choice.

--

Richard says that he will get some sleep. Boone agrees to keep watch – it’s not as if he needs it.

If, while Richard is asleep, Boone’s fingers slowly, lightly touch his face, no one is there to see it. It makes Boone feel horrible, but he misses the feeling of touching someone for real, and if he’s careful enough, Richard won’t ever find out.

He has soft skin, Boone thinks as his knuckles brush against Richard’s temple.

--

He hadn’t known that death would have made him starve for touch.

He should have never even tried to steal that contact. When Richard wakes up, Boone has to think constantly about keeping his hands in check. They’re threatening to raise and reach out and take, and that’s not something Boone just does.

He never has. With anyone.

It would help if Richard wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. Boone never only stuck to girls – Shannon he might have loved, but about everyone else he’s been with, he never cared about gender. As long as he liked them, what was the big deal?

Right now, he wishes he only liked girls. This is making him feel doubly uncomfortable.

“Something is troubling you,” Richard says, stopping next to a tree and leaning against it.

“How would you know?”

“You aren’t hard to read. I have been around to know enough on the subject.”

“Listen, it’s just – this whole not being able to touch anything business is driving me insane,” he answers, figuring that there’s no point in hiding this. “And this whole being dead thing is driving me even more insane, and at the prospect of spending eternity haunting this island is – I’m not sure if I can take it. And – I can’t think straight.”

“You could keep me company then,” Richard replies, sounding slightly amused. “I have accepted that same prospect a long time ago. And I could do a lot worse.”

Boone doesn’t know what made him go from standing in front of Richard, a safe four feet distance between them, to kissing him.

He doesn’t even realize how fast he moves.

But one second he’s standing on cardboard ground, and the second his hands are on Richard’s face and he’s crashing his lips against Richard’s, which are thin and slightly cracked and warm, oh-so-warm.

For a second it all feels wonderful, and then he realizes what he’s doing and flinches back, taking a couple of steps backwards.

“Sorry,” he says. “I have no idea what –”

“I do,” Richard replies, his voice so soft it’s barely audible.

“You what?”

“You’ve been dead for two weeks and I’m the only thing you can touch. I haven’t forgotten what humanity is means just because for me time stopped two centuries ago.”

Boone’s head is spinning and he isn’t sure that he can believe his own luck. It just makes sense that someone would get what he’s aiming for now and not when he was in the world of the living.

“Still, sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I haven’t been for a while.”

Richard nods, looking down at him for maybe a second more than appropriate; Boone wishes he could stop himself, but apparently his inhibitions are as dead as he is.

Richard doesn’t push him away this time either – actually, his lips press back when Boone moves forward and kisses him again. Richard tastes strange, or maybe it’s only his perceptions being screwed, but it isn’t a bad kind of strange. His cheek, the barest hint of stubble covering it, is warm under Boone’s otherwise unfeeling hands, and when Richard’s tongue brushes against Boone’s, it feels so good that Boone isn’t sure that he can think straight anymore.

Not that he was thinking straight in the first place, but when it’s over, he feels better than before. Less restless, maybe.

“Thanks,” he whispers as he takes a step back on the cardboard ground.

“Don’t mention it,” Richard replies, and then he starts walking again. Boone follows.

--

There’s a beach, and a foot belonging to an Egyptian statue around which Boone can’t even begin to wrap his head. Boone thinks that whoever invented Myst probably came from this godforsaken piece of rock.

Except that at least that game was over at some point, and the ending wasn’t only one. This one is not over. At this point, Boone thinks it’s never going to be. Not to mention that the ending has passed already and he isn’t getting a second chance.

“Knock on the door. You should be able to,” Richard says. “He’s most probably under there. I should say good luck to you, shouldn’t I?”

“Maybe. I’m not so sure that whatever happens will end up being good for me, though. Then again… at worst, I’ll just wander around here forever.”

Richard nods, takes in a deep breath.

“At worst, that’s exactly what I will do, as well. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“You know, you wouldn’t be such bad company either,” Boone says, knowing that he’s smiling slightly even if there’s nothing to smile about. Richard’s eyes are warm though, and his hand is even warmer as it gives Boone’s arm a tentative squeeze.

“Good. I told you it wouldn’t be that bad, would it?”

For a second, Boone is tempted to go back with Richard instead.

After all, it wouldn’t be so bad.

But then Richard’s hand isn’t there anymore and Boone wishes he could force himself to stop thinking foolish things for good. They might be cursed to an eternity on this piece of rock, but it doesn’t change that Boone is dead and Richard isn’t, and while Boone had more or less mastered the art of deluding himself, he isn’t that far gone.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice soft, as Richard turns his back and turns back towards the path they came from.

Richard turns back to him, another mostly sad smile on his lips. He nods, and then he’s gone.

Boone slowly turns back towards the statue. He takes a deep breath he doesn’t need and starts walking. When the jungle becomes sand, it doesn’t make a difference. It still feels like cardboard.

He hates this.

He wonders what he should ask. Why me, why this, can’t you let me stay dead in peace, send me somewhere else, what did you want from me.

He isn’t even sure that he wants to see Jacob’s face knowing that a simple tap on the shoulder is the reason he’s dead.

But for fuck’s sake, he has died trying to do a good thing, and he wasn’t scared when he realized that if he wanted to use that radio he couldn’t get off that plane. He hadn’t been scared to die back then. He had been scared after, of course, and asking Jack to let him die took a lot out of him, but you would have to be insane not to be scared at that point.

He can’t back out now.

He raises a hand as soon as he sees the door, wondering if he can even knock. He glances behind him – his feet haven’t left any trace on the cardboard sand.

Then the door opens itself. Boone can’t make much out – inside it’s all very dark. He can see a dim fire somewhere, but that’s it.

Fine, he thinks. He isn’t accepting an aimless destiny he never asked for without at least trying to stand up for himself. And if it comes to nothing, he might have someone to share some sort of fucked up eternity with after all. He doesn’t lose anything by this point.

He walks inside the statue, and the door closes behind him.

End.

LOST HOHOHO Posting Begins!

2011-12-16T17:29:07Z

Hello Losties!

Let there be much rejoicing, for today is the first day of posting for the 2011 LOST HOHOHO Fic Exchange! I hope you will enjoy the now-rare experience of new LOST fic every day and that you will express your enjoyment to the authors by leaving a comment for them when you read a fic.

Remember, the author reveal is not until January 1st. Please refrain from posting your fic in your journal or to any comms until after that date.

Thanks to all the writers who participated and happy reading to all! Now, on to the fic!

LOST HOHOHO FICS ARE DUE TODAY

2011-12-15T08:19:38Z

(Unless you have an extension, that is.) Send your fics in today - any time before midnight PST will be fine.

Email your fic to lostsqueemods@gmail.com. If you're gonna be late, and you don't have an extension, be sure to let us know.