Keep both feet planted firmly in the air

Two Lost ficlets

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:34:38 GMT

Title: 'Til Stars Above Set the Woods Afire
Pairing: Jack/Claire
Rating: PG-13
Warning: the pairing
Word Count: 265
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. The title isn't, either.
A/N: Written for the Spooky Lost fic battle at thequillstation, prompt: Jack/Claire, Hansel & Gretel. Also used for sacred_20: Purgatory.

Originally posted here

She sings him the song of rainy days and falling stars, her voice hollow and too high. Their pockets are empty.

They lose blood like breadcrumbs - it's hers or his, he doesn't know and it doesn't matter: they aren't so different, after all - a bright red trail on dark green, leading back to wherever the hell they came from (he doesn't want to remember).

The whispering of the jungle never stops, a constant murmuring in his ears, ghosts or gods or memories haunting them like monsters in a fairytale. (You know, once upon a time his father read him bedtime stories. Claire smiles, her lips on his cheek, warm breath fluttering against his skin, Tell me.)

He's hungry, stumbles over tree branches (or corpses or nothing at all, he can't tell the difference anymore). Claire - twigs tangled in her hair, clothes torn to shreds, toes bleeding - digs her fingernails into his hand, wild-eyed and impatient, urges, Come on. Her fingers won't let go of his, won't let go of the rifle, knuckles white. Maybe she's scared. She growls. Come on.

One of them says, I won't let anything happen to you, and he calls her little sister silently, in his head, never out loud, the words always on the tip of his tongue. She laughs or gasps or shivers, stands still, lets his arm circle around her waist. Her body is almost too small on top of his. We can't (stay here).

Somewhere, in another time or universe, a cabin burns to gingerbread ashes. They don't find their way back home.

Title: Hold Your Breath
Pairing: Juliet/Daniel
Rating: PG
Word Count: 248
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
A/N: Written for the Spooky Lost fic battle at thequillstation, prompt: Juliet/Daniel, full moon. Also used for un_love_you: You'll do.

Originally posted here

She follows his trail of footprints and snow angels, shivering in the frosty air. She's worried - maybe for selfish reasons, she doesn't want to be left alone - and he's gone (again). The moon is full. She can almost see them, out of the corner of her eye: wolves and polar bears and dead men walking.

She doesn't turn her head, doesn't panic. The gun sticks to her fingers, painfully. She tries to remember whether she turned off the oven. (Daniel never complains, eats her burnt cupcakes and muffins and lasagna, says, “It's - good. Delicious.” He doesn't lie.)

Breathing shouldn't be possible at this temperature. She rubs her temples. Her nose and upper lip are wet with blood when she finds him. She sighs, “Hey. Dan,” smiling, tired. His hand twitches up to her face, comes back dripping red against pale blue skin, fingertips frozen. She touches his cheek. “Let's go home, alright?”

Later they will take off damp, blood-soaked clothes and slip under the covers, together. “It's - uhm. Snowing,” he will tell her, and she will kiss his forehead, nod patiently (again, night after night after night). He will mutter, “It's her birthday,” and she will wonder - not for the first time - whether he even knows who he's talking about, won't say, No, it's not. (“Okay, Dan.”)

It could have been worse (she doesn't laugh). He's still warm, eyes not clouded over, not yet, his heart beating under her ear. It's enough.

Ficlet: Keep Your Grip From Slipping

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 23:11:53 GMT

Title: Keep Your Grip From Slipping
Pairing: Betty/Don
Rating: PG
Warning: spoilers for 3x11
Word Count: 321
Disclaimer: Mad Men is not mine.
A/N: for tokenblkgirl. Sorry that it took me so long to write this little piece of nothing - I didn't (and don't) have time but wanted to post something before the new episode airs. :/ It's not really a drabble (i.e. not exactly 100 words), but I hope you won't mind; it's still way too short.

They keep the rifle locked away in a cupboard in their living room. Protection - because you can never be wary enough. Burglaries happen all the time, Francine told her. Betty Draper (she used to be called Elizabeth Hofstadt, once upon a time before she married a man with a false name) does not shoot pigeons today. Instead she puts curlers in her hair and paints her daughter's lips pink.

Sally tells her she wants to be a gypsy princess when she is grown up: wear her costume all the time, change her name - it is not even hers (theirs) to begin with, or should not be (but Sally doesn't know that, of course) - go on an adventure. She knits her brows, exasperated, “You do not know what you are talking about, young lady.”

She will not back down now. She waits up for her husband, calls him, hours later when it's already dark outside and he is still at the office, “We need to talk, Don.” (“Come home,” she says, voice soft, forceful.) She does not feel sorry for herself. She thinks about Bobby and Sally and a fatherless boy named Glen who asked for a strand of her hair.

She does not feel sorry for Don. She smiles through her anger when he kisses her forehead. His hand against the small of her back trembles only slightly; she might hate him just a little bit (more than usual). She says, “Don't forget to eat something,” and “Do you expect me to ignore this?” He looks old, tired, and she is not sorry (she does not feel powerful, either, or that's what she tells herself). He shakes his head, “I don't know, Bets.”

Today, Betty Draper's eyes are hard (and that sounds like such a cliché, doesn't it?). They make love on the couch because she is angry and he is weak. She doesn't light a cigarette afterwards.

Fic: Halfway Home Now

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:17:49 GMT

Title: Halfway Home Now
Pairing: Kate/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 746
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from The Dresden Dolls' Half Jack.
A/N: A gift for angela_weber (this fic certainly isn't what I wanted it to be; I'm sorry about that and hope this is okay anyway). Also used for sacred_20: mercy.

She goes back because he's dying, four years later.

The sky stretches above her, cloudy and gray and not really limitless – sometimes not even illusions are perfect, see? – and maybe it is imprudent to drive like this; she's crying, too dark sunglasses covering red-rimmed eyes, but her hands on the steering wheel are steady and she's still too far away from L.A.

(Before: she watches Aaron grow up from a safe distance, doesn't get arrested, wears wigs and fake IDs. Claire doesn't give her up and Jack stops chasing her eventually.

Now:)

Claire's letter lies crinkled and invisible in the glove box, right next to a toy airplane and a copy of Watership Down and a sidepiece of a broken pair of glasses. (It's cheesy and hypocritical, Why hold on to something that makes you feel sad.) She looks up to the rearview mirror, eyes itching, tear-filled, paranoid. No-one is following her, the road behind her empty, and she only goes back because he's dying; it is simple as that, reason enough for now.

--

It's been a long time since she had a key for his door, but breaking in isn't difficult: there is an open window at the backside of his house. (That's good. Let your guard down, forget - let's forget, amen - and say hello to the murderer creeping into your home.)

She shivers when the dry, hot air of his living room hits her hard, curtains closed, heaters turned on. Perhaps it's an artificial, man-made hell, the afterlife he doesn't believe in, always self-righteous and self-punishing, and she already feels sick - dull pain and goosebumps and bile on her tongue - almost laughs, gasps for air instead, frowning, sweat and flaring anger on her forehead.

--

He looks just a little too pale, a little too old, doesn't wake up; she thinks about it, thinks about pillows pressed on faces and gas leak explosions (amateur hour is back, hi). There is a gun at the bottom of her suitcase. Maybe she's angry or disgusted or just heartbroken. He doesn't wake up; the edge of the bed digs into her thigh. She really loved him, you know, once upon time.

Later, she curls up in a ball on the bed in the guest room - traces of Aaron and Claire everywhere, toys and photos and clothes, messy. She's glad he's not alone (he will die unmarried and childless and guilty of murder, and that is not tragic, not really). She doesn't cry, knees pulled up to her chest. Sleep never comes easy.

--

Warm, clean breath on her face (on her cheeks and eyes and lips) wakes her. She blinks and he smiles, whispers, “Hey,” and it sounds like always, like the day before yesterday and a life long past, as if this was nothing unusual and she hadn't been gone for years. He says, “Hey,” or maybe “Good morning,” and “You want some coffee?”

She doesn't bring flowers to his deathbed, doesn't ask for his forgiveness (I'm so sorry for everything that I have put you through has never been appropriate, won't be now). There is a gun at the bottom of her suitcase. His fingers tangle in her hair, touch the small of her back. This is different from a mother yelling for help (Diane is dead, buried).

--

Her heart stutters in unison with his breathing, hands (his and hers) fluttering nervously. “Missed you,” he says, voice weak and pleading, shoulders tense. I'm not leaving, she doesn't promise, the words stuck somewhere between her throat and his lips, rehearsed for hours in her car and a dingy little motel room, now helplessly crushed beneath tongues and teeth.

Sawyer would smile, Told you so, Freckles, but this has nothing to do with fulfilling last wishes before execution; she would never do that. (She has slept with men for worse reasons, granted, but this is not same. Sawyer keeps grinning, burned to sand, nothing more than a ghost these days, Who are you kiddin', Shortcake.)

--

He's dying and she exhales smoke – it's not relief – slowly. He doesn't protest, doesn't look worried, doesn't mention lung cancer. Cigarettes and ash heaps on his coffee table make her eyes water. It tastes good. She says, “Fuck,” decides to buy some plants later: hell is green, she will tell him and he will grab her wrist, not bruising, fingertips shaking against her skin. He will laugh because he's scared.

Drabblet: It Leaves A Stain

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 23:06:40 GMT

[Banner by angeldylan628]

Title: It Leaves a Stain
Characters: Michael, Ana Lucia, Walt
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warning: mild spoilers for S5 (post The Incident)
Word Count: 108
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
A/N: Second place winner lost_in_108, challenge #3: coincidence. Also for 30_wounds: Die by your hand.

Leaving a plane full of shell-shocked passengers isn't too hard: just get up and out and talk to nobody. No-one tries to stop them. Walt hugs him, child-like, thin arms around his waist, “I'm glad you're back.” (“Yeah,” he rasps. “Me too, man.”)

Months later, she stands in line behind him, orders a latte. His blood doesn't freeze; he is not paralyzed by fear. “Michael,” she says, smiling (hollow voice and hard eyes and all), “Didn't expect to find you here.” Freaking coincidence. Or maybe not. He burns his fingers on the paper cup. Her hand - buried in her jacket pocket - twitches, “Good to see you.”

Drabblet: Give a Kiss Goodnight

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 14:52:27 GMT

[Banner by angeldylan628]

Title: Give a Kiss Goodnight
Pairing/Characters: Claire/Charlie/Juliet, Aaron, Jack
Rating: PG
Spoiler warnings: post The Incident
Word Count: 108
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from this song
A/N: First place winner at lost_in_108, challenge #2: science vs. faith. Also used for 30_wounds: Papercut.

They all died. Aaron gurgles in his crib, happy and newborn, too young to remember.

Juliet is afraid of the dark. She doesn't admit that, but all the lights are turned on when Claire comes home from university later than usual, the TV and radio roaring in the corners of their little apartment like a security system trying to protect them from monsters and memories.

Charlie goes to church, every day. “I met Jack,” he tells them at dinner. Juliet's eyes don't light up. Claire touches her hand, shrugs. (Jack refuses to sing Catch a Falling Star to Aaron. It doesn't matter. She doesn't believe in stars anymore.)

Lost icons

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 12:05:50 GMT

Instead of working or reading or writing or doing anything useful, I made icons! Which was stupid because I have no real graphics editing program (just freeware stuff) and no experience whatsoever. Consequently, the result is pretty embarrassing/bad - but since I wasted my time with this, I decided I could as well share them. Don't laugh at me. ;)

63 - Lost

05

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45

50

55

60

One of Us - A Picspam

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 04:05:01 GMT

Because I can't sleep and can't concentrate on doing something useful. Because I want to write Ana/Juliet. Because I miss Ana like mad and miss Juliet already, because I want Ana/Jack and Jack/Juliet back, because this is (one of) my Lost OT3(s). Because I'm probably the only person who feels that way. ;)

Picspam
What Kate Did (2x09) and One of Us (3x16)

Drabblet: As the Sun Goes Down

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 04:15:52 GMT

Title: As the Sun Goes Down
Character: Jack
Rating: PG
Word Count: 108
A/N: For lost_in_108, challenge #1: crash. Also for sacred_20: zen.

He has never been a good storyteller, but this is how it's supposed to begin: Once upon a long gone time, he wasn't afraid of flying.

He gets on the plane with sweaty palms and a bottle of sedatives in the pocket of his suit, almost laughs when they hit turbulence and start falling (what are the odds). The blonde girl next to him (blue-eyed, pregnant, not his father's daughter) digs her fingernails into his forearm; he tells her, “It's normal.” When the tail section breaks off, he prays (no, not literally, he doesn't believe in God) that they will die today. Maybe the third time's the charm.

Fic: And She Broke the Chain and Began to Float Away

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 03:49:41 GMT

Title: And She Broke the Chain and Began to Float Away
Characters: Juliet, Jack (Ben, not!John)
Pairing: Juliet/Jack (brief mention of Juliet/Sawyer and Juliet/Ben)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1469
Spoiler Warning: post S5-finale
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from this song.
A/N: For un_love_you: Wish I didn't love you.

This is how it begins: she enters the room.

For a moment, it's like going back to the beginning (it's not the one they hoped for). Perhaps she thought he would be yanking on the chain the second time round as well; he isn't and that is almost a disappointment. She doesn't feel metal crushing her insides, isn't in pain, but her hand goes to her belly anyway in a subconsciously protective gesture, and the words are already on her tongue, spoken a lifetime ago, inept now, Let go of the chain. He sits with his back against the wall, hand on his forehead, eyes closed. It is not 2004 and they remember everything.

He doesn't look up when the door clicks shut. She says, “Jack.” Her voice doesn't waver. Behind her back, she digs her fingernails into her left wrist. She says, “Jack,” and he winces, lifts his head, is on his feet within seconds, palms pressed against the glass. He looks like he might have a heart attack; it makes her feel cruel, and maybe she hates him a little just for that.

Her smile is reluctant, her fingertips quivering against the hard surface of the glass. He looks even worse this time, bruises and slowly healing cuts, more gray in his hair, dark circles around bloodshot eyes. At least they gave him different clothes (she saw them burning the jumpsuits in a bizarre, meaningless ritual). Her stomach clenches. It's worse this time.

His voice rasps against the wall between them, “I'm sorry.” (This is the first thing he says to her, I'm sorry, and she should have expected it.) He looks at her as if she was an apparition, as if she might vanish into thin air any second - perhaps she will - as if she was here to haunt him, and she feels a surge of sympathy for him, wants to say, It's okay. I'm really here. Maybe she's not. Maybe this is her own private hell, a trick her brain plays on her while she's dying alone at the bottom of a well. She blinks the thought away. “You're dehydrated.” It sounds too loud, hollow.

“How?” and “It's impossible” and “You couldn't have survi-” comes next, and she tries not to notice how his voice shudders and breaks. “They saved me,” she tells him. It's insufficient, no explanation, and he shakes his head, chuckles darkly. At least he doesn't cry, not while she's still here, watching. His fingers twitch, overstrained and helpless. He asks, again, “What the hell is going on here?”

She leaves the room. This is not how it ends, not yet.

--

She's sitting because standing for too long hurts. “It'll get better,” John tells her; she laughs. She's sitting. She hears Ben stumbling and leaning against the doorframe, hears him breathing, and it makes her skin tingle and her toes curl against the soles of her shoes. She doesn't turn her head to him; her eyes are trained on the monitors.

She doesn't cry. (She doesn't cry.) They share one and the same cage this time. She doesn't ask whether she is allowed to talk to them. (She wants to, wants to but sticks to her decision, and it's night and he's sleeping and she has a hood over her head and a rag in her mouth when they lead her past the cages - this is her idea.) Her eyes itch, vision blurry. On another monitor, Jack cries, cries and tries to break the glass and doesn't look up to the blinking red light, stubborn and defeated. Once - once - when John is there at the other side of the room, Jack asks, “Where is Juliet?” She has to look away. Her head aches and she covers her eyes with her hand, clammy and pain-relieving.

She hates him for the almost hopeful look on his face when she enters the room again, but he turns defensive soon enough, anger pushing to the surface as he smashes his fist into the glass, “Stop playing games” and “What do you want?” This would not have happened before: she flinches, her grip slipping, and drops the tray. (She made the sandwich herself, forgot the toothpicks on purpose.) “She's dead,” he tells her. “She's dead.” She feels tired, staccato heartbeats pumping blood into her ears while he's yelling himself hoarse. “I want to see Kate.” She almost demands, Stop that. His knuckles are bloody when he sinks to the ground.

“You can trust me, Jack,” she whispers, voice deliberately soft. It tastes like betrayal.

--

This has happened before. She should have seen it coming.

He slams her onto the table, his weight pressing her down, forearm between her shoulder blades. (It hurts and she isn't scared.) “Who the hell are you?” His mouth is dry and hot and breathless against her ear, voice rough and desperate, fingers suffocatingly tight around her throat; this time there is no broken plate threatening to delve into her skin. The bottle of water she brought him bursts on the ground, unnoticed. Her pleading is fake (genuine), “It's just me.” (Don't do this, Jack. Don't. Don't.) His heart beats frantically, his erection digging into her back - guilt and hate and slaughterhouse fear - and she reaches for his right hand. His grip loosens and she breathes out, breathes in. He grunts sharply, “Fuck.”

It's too easy. He took her by surprise (she will laugh about that only a few hours later, her fist pressed against her mouth, choking and trembling when she should be trying to sleep) but he's not strong enough, hunger and dehydration and sleeplessness finally stepping in, demanding their price, and she knocks him unconscious before they can intervene. They put him in chains. John appears in the doorframe and nods.

--

Once upon a time there was a promise, but he was the first one to break it. She won't let that happen again. She won't stay.

She is there when he wakes up, too close, body heat and blood and sweat and awkward, painful angles, his hands shackled to the table. “I'm sorry they had to put handcuffs on you.” He blinks groggily and she feels like crying, wraps an arm around her bent knees.

“I don't know where they are,” she tells him. The lie is smooth on her tongue. He nods, and that almost makes her lose her temper, makes her want to slap him for still trusting her. “Please, just do what they ask you to.” Why doesn't leave his throat because he's too far gone to care or doubt her loyalty, maybe. Her hand lands on his thigh, fingers cramping. “They're letting me go home,” and “They say they don't need me here anymore.” He didn't save her, and she leans in, presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. It's not a kiss, not really. It's not regret. “They promised not to hurt you,” she offers, wonders whether it matters that she doesn't believe them.

He has already given up but she hasn't (or maybe it's the other way around). If there is a chance that she can get off the island she has to take it. Near-death experiences and memories of a nephew she never met and parents and a sister she left more than six years ago - she has lost track of time, doesn't know the exact number of days anymore - have made her lose or gain perspective. She doesn't believe in happy endings, and she doesn't ask to see Sawyer (James is gone, the little boy who lost his mommy and girlfriend and himself left behind thirty years ago).

She tells Jack, “I can't stay.” (I can't stay. That is his tragedy.) He smiles as if it's a joke, self-mocking, “Don't come back.” He didn't save her. He wouldn't be willing to come with her now, even if he was allowed to, wouldn't leave without Kate. She doesn't want him to kiss her (he doesn't; his tongue in her mouth tastes stale). She says, “I won't. I promise.”

--

John says, “Let's go.” She packs her things - it's not much - shakes Ben's hand, smiles politely, patiently. She hopes that this is goodbye. She already sees the submarine blowing up again. Maybe she'll be on it this time: exploding boats and ripped apart, burned bodies and salty graves. Maybe she'll be back in a few hours, trapped in a game she never fully understood. Ben never did, either, and that fills her with bitter, malicious joy.

John peels a mango on their way to the dock. Richard joins them, ashen and doubtful. The jungle doesn't whisper. Juliet thinks of home, thinks of plane crash survivors and broken promises and hydrogen bombs and C-4.

She doesn't look back.

Peer pressure, peer pressure! (A meme)

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 01:05:32 GMT

I will probably hate myself for this later but ...

Stolen from everybody.

Never Will I Ever meme: Name three fics you think I will never, ever, ever write. In return, I will attempt to write a snippet of one of them.

Ficlets:
[beware, I am a cheater ;)]

Jack and Kate are Adam and Eve
(Kate/Jack; PG-13)

Juliet is actually ~madly~ in love with Sawyer, who kills Jack (it doesn't matter why)
(Juliet/Sawyer, mild Juliet/Jack; PG-13)

Sawyer and Juliet buy a puppy for their toddler to celebrate their tenth anniversary
(Juliet/Sawyer, Juliet/Jack; PG)

Fic: Childproof World

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 21:07:01 GMT

Title: Childproof World
Pairing: Claire/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 814
Warning: spoilers (post S5-finale), the pairing
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
A/N: Written for the Impromptu Multi-Fandom (im)Promptathon at crickets' lj. Also for sacred_20: Haram.

Jack's mouth catches her earlobe and loose strands of hair. She sighs, moans, and he tenses under her touch, panicking. This still happens: guilt is the monster hiding under their bed, and sometimes it creeps beneath the covers and pulls him away from her, sharp teeth and nails scratching its way under his skin until he rolls onto his back or pushes her away, whispers, “We can't.” He always tries to make that decision for her, still self-righteous and arrogant and patronizing. “Claire,” he says, voice wavering in another faltering attempt to resist her. “We can't.”

She grabs his forearm, “Jack,” and it sounds impatient, annoyed. She can't muster the strength to comfort him, to convince him that it's okay, really. She doesn't feel like crying over the death of a father or long-lost friends on islands, doesn't feel like fighting that horrified look of I am fucking my little sister from his eyes. Instead she grips the headboard, kneeling above him. She says, “Shut up,” laughs, laughs and laughs till her insides hurt, doesn't care whether he will spend the rest of the night - afterwards - in the bathroom. His hips buck up.

It's almost ridiculous, hypocritical. Somewhere along the way he became a murderer (she catches him counting, impersonal numbers whispered like prayers into the darkness while he tries to recall frantic actions and fallen men in Dharma jumpsuits; the number changes, never quite correct, his memory betraying him), tried to detonate a hydrogen bomb, buried the shattered bodies of ex- and almost-lovers (he has no-one but her now and it makes her feel powerful), and she whithered away under the command of maybe-gods in a maybe-temple, Richard at her side, and now their - his, always his - biggest problem is blood relationship.

Jack thinks he will burn in hell. Or maybe he would think that if he believed in anything; he doesn't, she knows he doesn't (nothing but self-punishment, and it becomes or already is his religion). It's mirthless, bleak, and more often than not that makes her laugh. He never laughs. He smiles occasionally, but every little sound catches in his throat, dies away, lies stillborn on his lips. (She sees it on his face and squeezes his hand, her fingers tiny and weak around his).

Her friends, colleagues - she's a kindergarten teacher now; Jack had chuckled soundlessly, fake documents on his desk - are even more ridiculous. Gossip about improper age differences would make her roll her eyes and smile if Jack didn't take it seriously. It fades away as time goes by. They are unblemished, holy family and ideal world, all too perfect and boring to attract attention for more than a few weeks.

He always waits at the car after work, overly protective, and behaves - every once in a while - like the big brother she never had but used to fantasize about when she was a child. No-one suspects them of being sinful. Her hair is short and brown. They don't look alike - she blinks, tries to see Christian in his face, tries to see herself, fails - and no-one knows them. Fake identities give her the feeling of being honest-to-God outlaws, make her heart jolt, excitement and happiness fluttering inside her stomach.

He never takes sleeping pills or painkillers, not once.

Money and a son (a nephew), this is all they keep as evidence of their former lives. Aaron is happy, calls them Mommy and Daddy, stops asking about Kate eventually. She visits her mother once or twice a year, tells her she's traveling around the world, has to rent an apartment in a foreign city when she insists on coming to see her. It works surprisingly well. Jack just shakes his head, frowning. He still waits for everything to crumble or blow up in his face, another plan gone wrong, another dirty not-so-little secret revealed for everyone to see. But that's okay. She is confident, fearless enough for both of them.

Their house is small and cozy and cliché. Jack paints the white picket fence blue and she hangs drapes on the windows. She knows he won't leave her. She suggests getting married just to shock him: he turns pale and she giggles, wraps her legs around his waist, arches her back. (“Don't worry,” she says. “I'm joking.”)

Sometimes, despite his best efforts to hide it, he's happy too. She can tell the difference. Sometimes his heartbeat is steady. Sometimes he looks like a man in love, and it's honest when he smiles and buys her flowers, makes dinner and reads bedtime stories to Aaron, holds her hand, kisses her in public.

She curls her fingers around his neck, her mouth hovering over his jaw. He sighs as if he's in pain, but his hand sneaks under her shirt, cold against her skin. He always gives in. She shivers.

Ficlet: Breathe In

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 08:51:07 GMT

Title: Breathe In
Pairing: Desmond/Claire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 412
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost.
A/N: Written for the Impromptu Multi-Fandom (im)Promptathon at crickets' lj. Also for 30_wounds: Kiss it better.

Originally posted here

Her fingers curl into fists and pound against his chest, small and weak and child-like. He doesn't grab her wrists, doesn't try to stop her. Her eyes are bluer than he remembers. His name tumbles from her lips – again and again – mixes with “Who are you people?” and “What's happening to me?” and “Where is my baby?” Her voice is quiet now, hoarse from hours of screaming. (“Desmond,” she repeats, sobs, sinks against him.)

His arm circles around her waist, pulls her closer. He sees them out of the corner of his eye: Charlie pleads, “Mum,” and Penny bends down to take him in her arms, carries him back to the boat; he doesn't meet her eyes. Claire trembles. “It's all right,” he tells her, lips on her temple. “You're all right.” (I promise.)

I came back throbs against his throat, lies on his tongue like acid and delayed guilt and salt water. He almost says it (almost, “I came back for you.”) as if he hadn't let her down – them, he doesn't dare to think (three-year-long happiness on a boat: he doesn't see a drowning man anymore when he closes his eyes, doesn't think of broken promises and inaccurate visions, barely remembers his face, and Charlie is his son, a smiling toddler, oceans away from blame and debt; it hits him all the harder now) - as if he had been on this mission to save her all along, as if he was the hero, as if he was selfless and not cowardly and not too late at all. Jack looks at him, at her, brow furrowed, eyes wet and pained, a hand on his head.

He doesn't kiss her (he wants to, mouth-to-mouth because she drowned, is almost gone now, will be irretrievably lost in a few seconds, maybe). Her breathing stutters against his skin, against his jaw, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, buries her toes in the sand, fingertips pressing down into his shoulder blades.

Later – days and hours and minutes – she stops crying. The boat is too crowded, but it's dark, quiet in her cabin (moments and waves and stars) and she stops crying and kisses him, gasps into his mouth, fights for air when he pulls away. She whispers, “I'm sorry.” Guilt gnaws at his insides. He nods and doesn't ask for her forgiveness.

(“I don't remember anything,” she says. He hopes that she's not lying.)

Fic: Tire Tracks and Broken Hearts

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 12:13:25 GMT

Title: Tire Tracks and Broken Hearts
Pairing: Sawyer/Kate
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 5.17. The Incident
Word Count: 659
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from the song A kiss is a terrible thing to waste.
A/N: Written for the infamous alphabet meme (yes, I am still working on those prompts), for lenina20 who requested Kate; Sawyer. This is my first attempt at this pairing so ... sorry? ;) Also used for 30_wounds: Will to live.

Tire tracks and broken hearts
That's all we're leaving behind
(Let's get away from the past)
It doesn't matter what we're losing
Only matters what we're going to find

Whistle Down the Wind

Last Chapter

The cigarette is trapped between her lips, between her fingers. She doesn't cough.

She is a sharp contrast against the otherworldly civilization of the lobby. Maybe this doesn't make sense: it is blue and yellow and she sits under the indoor palm trees of a hotel in Fiji, and it should remind him of the island (but it's fake, artificial). She represents the wild, and he has never seen her in a place like this (Dharma jumpsuits and motor pools and civilized, reserved conversations lie thirty years in the past, almost never happened, ever-present).

Approaching her is relatively simple. She looks up. He grins, tired, “Since when do you smoke?” He thinks she might as well be rolling her eyes, “I don't,” and she drops the cigarette butt, grinds it under her heel, crushing and unforgiving. He nods, “Yeah.” (Whatever you say, sweetheart.) She thrusts the packet into his hand, “You can have it.” He chuckles darkly, huskily, “Thanks.” (Thanks.)

She pushes a strand of hair away, slides it behind her ear, and gets up. She smells like chlorinated water and mango shampoo and smoke. “I'm going to bed. You should, too,” and as an afterthought perhaps, “James.” This is not an invitation. A lifetime ago, he might have made an inappropriate comment, a lewd joke. Instead he says, “Nah. Can't sleep anyway.”

She whispers, “I'm so sorry.” Her body brushes against his, and he pulls away reflexively, his voice hoarse in his own ears, “Night, Kate.” They both know this is goodbye. No-one says, See you around.

He doesn't return to his room, doesn't want to wait for her to disappear. He is the first one to leave. This is important: She will be gone in the morning, but he won't be here to see that, leaves when it's still dark outside. He doesn't have any things to pack. His guts clench. It fucking hurts, but going is easier than staying.

He is the first one to leave.

First Chapter

Her fingers curl around one of the hand-written price tags, touching the fake gold. Her hair is blonde (he blinks, tries to figure out whether it's a wig or bleached), her shirt pink. “How much?” He almost laughs, “Seventy bucks a piece,” and “Which one, Blondie?”

("Blondie," he says. Blondie. It's smooth on his tongue and she doesn't bat an eyelash.)

The necklace she chooses is plain; she doesn't give it back to him when the men are gone, tells him to keep the money. He grips her wrist and pulls her back - “One hell of a coincidence, ain't it?” - thinks about quick, dirty alleyway fucks (remembers cages, bars pressed against naked skin, wonders whether she would count this - here, now - as a one-night stand, mumbles, “You don't wear pink, Freckles.”)

He doesn't ask her what she's doing here, in the middle of damn nowhere. Maybe she's on the run for blowing up the next person in line (in another life they were all guilty of attempts to blow things and people up; a sneering remark still won't come, but at least his heart doesn't skip a beat anymore); maybe she did something else, something less spectacular. Or maybe she's just running for old time's sake. He doesn't ask.

Later, her hair falls in dark curls over her naked back, and he keeps her from getting dressed right afterwards, pushes her down into the mattress again. The bed (cheap motel room, gloomy) creaks underneath them, and she laughs and calls him Sawyer (moans, reprimands, giggles Sawyer) and snatches the cigarette away from him, stubbing it out against the old beside table. “I missed you,” she tells him, her hand on his cheek, jaw, neck. (Missed you, too, and she's kissing him, open-mouthed, strawberry taste.)

“Where to now?” She shakes her head and laughs again, her eyes glinting. She has a gun tucked into her denims. They eat lasagna out of plastic cups.

Ficmix: Death All Around Will Be Your Dowry

Sun, 09 Aug 2009 10:07:51 GMT

Title: Death All Around Will Be Your Dowry
Characters/Pairing: Eloise/Charles (mentions of Richard and Daniel)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S5 (The Variable)
Word Count: 1093
Disclaimer: Neither Lost nor the songs are mine.
A/N: for former Queen jenthegypsy who requested Adam and Eve at the lostsquee Luau 2009, and for lenina20 who made me see these two as Adam/Eve (I don't take credit for the idea/pairing, it's all yours ... and I hope it's okay that I used it here). Also for 30_wounds: Last one standing
A/N(2): I included links to youtube vids so you can listen to the songs (please just ignore the pictures/videos - I tried to use the most neutral ones but well, that turned out to be pretty much impossible in some cases ;)); sorry for not providing directly downloadable tracks.
A/N(3): Thanks a lot to bluelittlegirl for looking this over and for the encouragement.

I dreamed I saw on a moonlit stair / Spreading his hand on the multitude there
A man who cried for a love gone stale /And ice cold hearts of charity bare
I watched as fear took the old men's gaze / Hopes of the young in troubled graves
I see no day, I heard him say / So grey is the face of every mortal
Oh oh people of the earth! / Listen to the warning, the prophet he said
For soon the cold of night will fall / Summoned by your own hand [...]
He told of death as a bone white haze / Taking the lost and the unloved babe
Late too late all the wretches run / These kings of beasts now counting their days
From mother's love is the son estranged / Married his own his precious gain
The earth will shake, in two will break / And death all around will be your dowry
The Prophet's Song - Queen

Necks are cracking sideways / Hit me from the back side
I am on the white side / You are on the black side
Cut a piece that's bite size / Shoot me from my good side
If you got a straight line / This would be a good time
Gravity - The Dresden Dolls

I want my innocence back / And if you can't pacify me
I will break your bones / You think I'm bluffing, just try me
I will never forget / The words you used to ensnare me
Till my dying day / You'll suffer for this, I swear
I Want My Innocence Back - Emilie Autumn

I am the tower around which you orbited / I am not proud, I am just taking orders
I fall to the groud within hours of impact / I hit back when hit and attack when attacked
And I am an accident waiting to happen / I'm laughing like mad as you strangle the captain
My place may be taken, but make no mistake / From a little black box I can say without shame
That you've lost, that you've lost / Do you know what you've lost?
Truce - The Dresden Dolls

No haven for this heart / No shelter for this child in mazes lost
Heaven keep us apart / A curse for every mile of ocean crossed
For I must die for what I've done / A twist of fate, a desert sun
For I see what I destroy / Sweet reflection knife into me
For I see what I destroy / I can see what I've begun
My Medea - Vienna Teng

We are mortal / In the hands of Gods who roll the dice
Searching for an earthly paradise / So hard to find
We are mortal / Victims of our weaknesses and passion
I am falling, I am falling / We, we are mortal
The Fallen Priest - Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé

--

She remembers the stones, remembers the weight of them in her hands, remembers how they tasted.

Or maybe she doesn't; maybe it's just one of those stories you hear so often that you start to believe you actually remember it. What she does remember is Richard's voice, warm and amused, detachedly nostalgic as he tells a pouting teenage girl about little four-year-old Ellie who used to play in the jungle and the caves, who used to hit little Charles with those stones to defend her realm against intruders (she was born on the island and he wasn't – or at least that's what they told her – and she almost believes that she remembers the annoyance she felt the first time he entered her cave, his small hand in Richard's, a shy, soft toddler, easily crushable under her own tiny feet).

For once, her memory betrays her. Maybe. The stones seemed certainly bigger back then, heavier, deadlier. Now they lie powerless and black and white in her palm, a meaningless, cruel reminder of what she lost. She crushes tears between compressed lips and wide-open eyes, her jaw tight as she stares into the wet darkness of her – their – cave.

Charles calls her Ellie again, and it's not the deriding, belligerent sound that it used to be, a lifetime ago. Maybe age is making them both sentimental; they are softer now that it's over, the deed done: their son is dead, killed accidentally and then sentenced to death by his own parents (still fighting against each other, still working together in a silent, hostile agreement), sent to this place so his mother can shoot him when he isn't even born yet.

There is nothing they can do anymore now, nothing they have to do, no need for declarations of necessary sacrifices, justifications which are getting louder and dying away with every secret, fruitless attempt of fighting the inevitable (maybe this time has been a constant bitterness on her tongue for the past thirty years, the only irrational, unfounded hope she allowed herself).

Perhaps Charles got what he wanted, and she wonders whether it feels like a poor imitation (a bad joke) to him, too: they are back, and he acclaims himself leader and conqueror and legitimate ruler – he calls it taking back what's ours and looks as if he wants to rub it into someone's face, See, I told you so: I win, you lose (one day, not so long ago and years from now, she raised her eyebrows at stories about gunshot daughters and sworn vengeance) - and she laughs at him, mocking; they are King and Queen of a couple of caves, and he keeps on wearing his suit. At least he still knows how to handle a gun (she won't admit that she doesn't dare to touch one, hides that from him as if it mattered).

The island is still green and pulsing with life, and it still smells like home. They are not happy, not content; they are not that cruel.

Not far away, Ellie turns seventeen and learns what a hydrogen bomb is, kills for the first time and meets her son, develops a crush on the man who should have been more like a father figure and starts to sleep with the boy she was raised with. Only much later will she think of this as love (she makes fun of the fairy tales Richard reads to her and rolls her eyes at him when he comments on her and Charles – she feels annoyed by his romanticism, angry at his false interest, I know you don't really care). Only much later will she think she was in love at seventeen and forty, will look back with a lump in her throat while Daniel is asleep in his crib and she has nothing better to do than to listen to corny songs and cry over silly movie romances, a brief diversion from what happened and what's to come.

They are not miraculously turned back into their younger selves – they stay old and grey and cold, the blood of sacrificed children and civilian casualties on their hands – and there are no whispers of sweet love floating through the night. They wither away in a dark, grave-like cave. They are the bad guys, after all. Or maybe they are nothing more than carelessly discarded pawns in a game they never had a chance to win, useless and betrayed and bitter.

No-one finds them (perhaps they will, later when they're long gone and there's nothing but rotten bodies to be found). She closes her hand into a fist, remembers the last time she came here to smash the stones against the wall in some childish act of breaking free, swearing never to return to that bloody cave. She can't suppress a cough; they are too old to live here and will die sooner rather than later, slain by age or a disease or the gun tucked into Charles' belt.

He sits down next to her, offering quiet comfort, and looks nothing like the boy she knocked unconscious with her rifle more than a few times because he tried to pull her hair or kissed her unexpectedly or refused to follow orders.

She misses him. Sometimes she thinks about going to their camp just to be able to look at him (them) again. Or maybe - maybe - she fantasizes about shooting them both, defying all laws. What a tragedy: killed at the tender age of seventeen. Course correction bites down onto her tongue, and she tastes blood and stays put.

She misses him. White hair and wrinkled faces mean less than absent hostility, absent passion, and she wonders what he sees in her, now that all the aggressiveness she can muster is a slap across his face (no stones, no fists or rifle butts or knives or gunfire anymore). But time took its toll on him too, and despite everything he has always been (will always be) softer, weaker than her; she understands that now.

(And - this does not matter - he has always loved her. She understands that, too. This does not matter.)

She gives him a tight-lipped smile and says, Let's get to work. She is hungry and her bones are stiff and she never liked fishing. He scoffs, puts a hand on the small of her back. She has missed him. She wonders who would kill whom first. (He has always been weaker, and she has never - always - loved him.)

Fic: Guilt Stains On My Pillow

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 10:14:46 GMT

Title: Guilt Stains On My Pillow
Pairing: Jack/Boone
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: post S5-finale
Warning: mentions of attempted suicide and substance abuse
Word Count: 5x100
A/N: A late offering for janie_tangerine who requested Boone at the lostsquee Luau 2009. Also for sacred_20: Rebirth.

Guilt stains on my pillow
Blood on my terraces
Torsos in my closet
Shadows from my past
Life is real

Queen

–

01.

Jack's eyes snap open and he gasps, fights for air, coughs up salt water or blood or nothing at all. The hands pressing against his chest disappear, travel upward, shaking fingers touching his neck. A face comes into view, leaning down, too close, their breaths mingling; the boy says, “It's all right, you're all right,” and he sounds surprised, disbelieving, relieved. Boone, Jack thinks, Boone Boone Boone Boone, and it doesn't make sense. He laughs, still panting, inhaling the scent of fire and sand and blood and burning flesh, and grabs his forearm, determined not to let go this time.

–

02.

It's almost too easy - No, I just took some headache pills and It was not intentional and I don't need therapy, and they nod and smile sympathetically, indifferently.

He sits down next to him, “Jack.” He pauses for a moment, “Your name is Jack, right?” Jack looks at him, chuckles mirthlessly, “Boone.” His leg brushes against his, and Jack takes his hand, squeezes it weakly, ducks his head sheepishly, doesn't get up, “Thanks again.” Boone's eyes stay on his for a second too long, his fingers resting diffidently on his wrist. “Yeah,” he says, “I'll see you around, Jack.”

–

03.

He runs into him again, not even a week later; Jack almost laughs. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Or a drink? I owe you one.” Boone shakes his head, “No you don't,” and “Should you be drinking?” His hand lands on Boone's hipbone. A cellphone vibrates in one of their jacket pockets. “My sister,” Boone says, and recognition is right there at the outer corner of his eye, slipping away as he tries to catch it. He doesn't ask, Where do I know you from? Boone nods anyway, lips parting, eyes flickering with confusion, “I don't know.”

–

04.

Jack stifles a yawn, suppresses sleep, feels the need to say, “I don't - I'm not -” Boone whispers, “I know. Me neither.” The kisses are sloppy, lazy and furious and tentative in the aftermath of their lovemaking, bodies slick with sweat, breathing still fast, alive. “I'm sorry,” he offers, and Boone's eyelids flutter, voice breaking, “Don't be,” and it sounds like something he might have heard before; Jack closes his eyes, gasps, almost remembers something that never happened, and his stomach tightens, failure and anger and self-imposed guilt pounding wildly against his ribcage. Boone shivers. No-one says, What now?

–

05.

“You saved us,” Boone tells him before he leaves, and he shakes his head, “What?” Boone smiles, “A dream. You saved us.” (No, I didn't, he almost says.)

Surreality consumes him. His head is stuffed with cotton wool, colors dimmed and sounds muffled, and he feels drunk or stoned even when he doesn't take anything, leaves the bottle of Scotch untouched, doesn't pop pills. He staggers around in a never-ending déjà vu, people on the street suddenly familiar, shared nods and shy smiles and averted eyes, teetering on the verge of remembering. Boone calls him, sounds tired, “Wanna come over?”

Ficlet: The Rain Will Be Gone In The Morning

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 16:13:43 GMT

Title: The Rain Will Be Gone In The Morning
Pairing: Juliet/Charlie/Claire
Rating: PG
Spoilers: S5-finale (very mild spoilers, if you want to see them)
Word Count: 285
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. (Title taken from Vienna Teng's Lullaby For A Stormy Night.)
A/N: for toestastegood who requested Charlie and established relationships at the lostsquee Luau 2009. Also for un_love_you: This cancels out the hurt.

Charlie's knuckles tap against the window pane, a shining bright staccato competing with the infinite pounding of the rain; his guitar lies in his lap, forgotten for the moment, fingers playing unconsciously with the strings. He's humming, singing quietly, and it's impossible for Juliet to understand any words until he drifts to familiar songs. She offers him a cup of tea, “Isn't it 'singing'?” (He sings, “I'm drowning in the rain.”) He shrugs and grins at her, almost knocks the tea out of her hand as he hurries to get up, eager and overly excited and almost child-like. “I'm writing again. Do you want to hear it?” She can't help laughing, “Sure.”

Sometimes, secretly, she fantasizes about running into Edmund. She would tell him, Look, my boyfriend's a rock god, and It worked. My sister is alive and has a son. Let the rest remain untold, secrets she shouldn't share with an ex-husband: the men she never really had and the women she buried and the triggers she pulled. Maybe, someday, she would go outside, wander down some street, meet him accidentally, rub it in his face, I'm happy.

Claire, pale, tired, appears in the door frame, complains quietly, “You're too loud. I'm trying to sleep,” and Juliet reaches out for her, apologetic. Claire's hand in hers feels tiny and fragile, fingers fluttering, her ear resting on her shoulder, and she kisses her forehead, whispering, “What's wrong, sweetie?” The music doesn't stutter, confident, comforting. Her voice is soft and warm and tear-filled, her lips on Juliet's collarbone, “I miss him.”

“Claire,” Charlie says, “Claire.” The flickering light of the candles casts shadows over their faces. She breathes, “I want to go dancing in the rain.”

Fic: People Just Ain't No Good

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 01:18:24 GMT

Title: People Just Ain't No Good
Pairing: Kevin/Sawyer (mentions of Sawyer/Juliet, Sawyer/Kate and Kevin/Kate)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: post S5-finale
Word Count: 882
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine (the title isn't, either).
A/N: for gottalovev who requested first times at the lostsquee Luau 2009 (*bites nails* I hope this is not complete crap ;)). Also for 30_wounds: Battle fatigue
winner at lost_fic_awards, best slash fic, Augtember 2009

His left hand is shaking. At least Jack's house doesn't have a white fence. (It doesn't look like a shrimp stand or shipwreck either.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hiding in a random seedy bar in Los Angeles and ordering one shot after the other (probably too much, he knows he's going to be sick soon) feels almost natural, easy, not like himself.

He watches him through heavy-lidded eyes (it's the alcohol). The man at the other end of the counter doesn't seem to notice him; he stares into his glass while he sucks on his cigarette, lips closing and opening – inhale, exhale – deliberately ignoring the smoking ban (nobody seems to care). It's almost cliché, torn up jeans and leather jacket included.

Kevin downs another drink and gets up, staggering, and slides onto the bar stool next to him, grabbing the wood of the counter to steady himself (he hasn't been this drunk in ages; he feels daring). The guy looks up and grins, a flash of a dimple showing, and holds out the pack of cigarettes, “You smoke?” He shakes his head and takes one anyway. The man chuckles darkly, “Thought so.”

--

The smoke and the alcohol make his eyes water, but at least he manages not to cough; he's almost proud of himself.

“Kevin,” he says. The man looks up from his drink, raises an eyebrow. “My name,” he adds, stupidly. The dimples appear again, “Nice to meet you, Kevin,” drawling, southern accent, “James.” He thinks about it, frowns - it's the alcohol - “You don't look like a James.” The man shrugs.

--

“So you wanna share your story, Kev?”

He blinks and shakes his head, “What?”

“If you ain't the talkin' type, fine by me, but somethin' tells me you may wanna bond over some sad, sad story with some stranger in a bar.” Perhaps that smile is meant to be sexual; perhaps he's just drunk and horny and heartbroken, “Or why did you come over?”

He shrugs nonchalantly (maybe he blushes), “You looked miserable.” He knows it's not a good answer. James laughs, “Thanks.”

--

“You ain't married or you don't like wearin' a ring?”

“No, not married. Not anymore.” He downs the next drink, “Didn't last very long.” James looks at him, frowning, eyes staring blankly for a second.

--

Kevin grabs his hand (coordinated movements are not easy), looks at his fingers, “You married?”

James mutters, “Fuck off,” and pulls his hand away forcefully, knocking his glass over. He curses, “Son of a -”

“She dumped you?”

“Nobody dumped anybody.” Kevin takes the hint. His hand lands on James' shoulder, sympathetic, too heavy. His blood pumps downwards, “All right. Sorry, man.”

--

He trusts his common sense to click in eventually. (Hangover, he thinks. Alcohol poisoning. Heart attack. Sex with strangers.)

He asks, “What do you do? For a living?” Small talk. James shakes his head absend-mindedly. “I'm a policeman,” he offers (it sounds dumb and he winces). James smirks, “Alrighty then. You can be the cop and I can be the criminal. You have your handcuffs here?” Kevin smiles awkwardly, “No, I'm really -” He feels light-headed. James bows his head, flirting, mocking.

--

“I ran into her today,” his voice slurs. “My ex-wife,” he clarifies. “She looked beautiful.” James nods, “Yeah.”

(“She looked miserable,” he wants to say, and, “It's one hell of a coincidence, running into someone when you're in L.A. for only one day.” But it's not interesting, not significant, and he tries to shrug it away. It's been years, and his heart didn't skip a beat. He has never been good at lying.)

--

“So, James, what brings you to L.A.?”

“Business.”

--

(He's drunk.)

“There's a man here in L.A.,” James says. “He's the reason she's gone.” Kevin nods, “She left you for him?” (James snorts.)

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I have a gun.” For a second he sounds serious, and then he grins, unabashedly sexual, “Jokin'”. Nauseous and turned on, Kevin feels the heat rising to his face. There's a hand on his hip, “Don't pass out on me.”

--

Of course it ends in a hotel room. Desire burns, cold and desperate and devouring, and he moans his name. Hot breath rasps against his cheek and ear, “My name's not James,” (that feels familiar somehow) lips and teeth on his neck, and he shudders against the body pushing him into the wall, shakes his head. “Sawyer,” the man says (it feels oddly out of context), dropping to his knees, grinning again, pupils dilated, “You sure you don't have any cuffs, officer?”

It's an act, Kevin thinks. A game. Sex.

--

He groans, the pain splitting his head in half. James thrusts a glass of water into his hand.

“You have the room till 12.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His left hand is shaking, “Just wanted to say goodbye, Freckles.” She hits him in the face, almost screams, “What did you do?” He drops the gun; she hits him again and pushes her hair back, crying, pressing one hand against her forehead, and shoves him out of the door, “I'm gonna have to call them. I'll give you a few hours head start.”

(“Jack's alive,” he doesn't tell her, “He's in a hospital. I didn't - I couldn't -”)

Fanmix: Who Waits Forever Anyway?

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 16:28:21 GMT

for lockes; favorite ship

[Please excuse the lame, crappy cover (*cringes*); my graphic editing skills are pretty much non-existent. ;) And I am also aware of the fact that I cheated; I'm sorry for including three Queen (I prefer the version of Too Much Love Will Kill You that is sung by Freddie) and two Emilie Autumn songs – I simply couldn't decide.]

01. Too Much Love Will Kill You - Queen

Too much love will kill you
Just as sure as none at all
It'll drain the power that's in you
Make you plead and scream and crawl
And the pain will make you crazy
You're the victim of your crime
Too much love will kill you every time

–

02. Shalott - Emilie Autumn

She looks up to the mirrored glass
She sees a handsome horse and rider pass
She says, “That man’s gonna be my death
‘Cause he’s all I ever wanted in my life
And I know he doesn’t know my name
And that all the girls are all the same to him
But still I’ve got to get out of this place
‘Cause I don’t think I can face another night

–

03. Survive - David Bowie

You alone across the floor
You and me and nothing more
You're the great mistake I never made
I never lied to you, I hated when you lied
And I'll survive your naked eyes
I'll survive

–

04. #1 Crush - Garbage

I will lie for you
Beg and steal for you
I will crawl on hands and knees until you see
You're just like me

–

05. Unintended - Muse

You could be my unintended
Choice to live my life extended
You should be the one I'll always love
I'll be there as soon as I can
But I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before

–

06. The Perfect Fit - The Dresden Dolls

Can't you just fix it for me, it's gone berserk
Fuck, I'll give you anything if you can make the damn thing work
Can't you just fix it for me, I'll pay you well
Fuck, I'll pay you anything if you can end this

–

07. Aftermath - R.E.M.

And you close your eyes
He's not coming back
So you work it out, overfeed the cat
And the plants are dry and they need to drink
So you do your best and you flood the sink
Sit down in the kitchen and cry

–

08. Almost Lover - A Fine Frenzy

So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

–

09. It's Late - Queen

It's late - but I'm bleeding deep inside
It's late - is it just my sickly pride?
Too late - even now the feeling seems to steal away
So late - though I'm crying I can't help but hear you say
It's late, it's late, it's late
But not too late

–

10. Talk Show Host - Radiohead

You want me, fucking well come and find me
I'll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches
And nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

–

11. Eric's Song - Vienna Teng

And of course I forgive
I've seen how you live
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
You pick up the pieces
And the ghosts in the attic
They never quite leave
And of course I forgive
You've seen how I live
I've got darkness and fears to appease

–

12. 9 Crimes - Damien Rice (feat. Lisa Hannigan)

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you

–

13. Another Year - Amanda Palmer</b>

I'm not as callous as you think
I barely breathe when you are near
It's not as bad when I don't drink
I think I'll wait another year

–

14. Lithium - Nirvana

I miss you, I'm not gonna crack
I love you, I'm not gonna crack
I killed you, I'm not gonna crack

–

15. Remember - Emilie Autumn

Like a dream I had in subconscious deep
Here you come again, only in my sleep
And I remember you, I remember you
Like a memory of a time gone by
Many things I've seen, still I can't deny
That I remember you

–

16. Who Wants To Live Forever - Queen

But touch my tears with your lips
Touch my world with your fingertips
And we can have forever

Fic: There's No Living In My Life Anymore

Tue, 26 May 2009 00:03:50 GMT

Title: There's No Living In My Life Anymore
Pairing: Jack/Juliet
Rating: PG-13
Warning: spoilers for The Incident; character death (suicide), drug abuse
Word Count: 605
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from Queen's Nevermore.
A/N: Written for the Lost ficlet challenge at lostsquee. Also for sacred_20: Fallen.
Winner at lost_fic_awards, best het fic, June 2009

Originally posted here

It worked, and he opens his eyes, the burning white light gone. Juliet looks down on him. It rattles in his throat, “It worked,” and she smiles and reaches out a hand to help him up. His head throbs, a dull pain spreading down his nape and spine. He wants to tell them, Stop crying. It's over. We're on our way to L.A. and weakly, We don't know each other. Juliet's hand is in his hair, on the back of his head. Her fingers are pale and bloodstained. She says, “You'll live.” He looks at her; it reveals itself slowly, hits hard, “You weren't on the plane.” She tilts her head and smiles again. The jungle whispers.

He stumbles, teeters, looks down, and her body lies smashed and torn and lifeless on the bottom of the remains of the hatch. His insides clench, shocked. He feels her pressing her mouth against his shoulder, one arm around him, “It's okay, Jack.” His vision goes blurry. Kate grabs his hand, “It's all right.” She cries; he gasps, shakes his head.

–-

This may be their second try, and they bury her, fallen and shattered and dead for nothing. Sawyer remains silent. Kate speaks. John (John - it makes him chuckle mirthlessly) says, “She was a hero.” It's a punch in the face but he doesn't react. This time he doesn't attack him, doesn't fight against a bunch of strangers, no new plane crash survivors trying to pull him back. This time it's his fault, not John's. (John is dead, and he remembers debates about destiny and sacrifice, and he snorts and chokes and cries.)

-–

They wait two and a half months before they start sneaking off into the jungle or Sawyer's tent; it's almost decent. A lifetime ago it hurt more, but his hand is trembling anyway when he draws the tent flap back.

“Hey, Jack,” welcomes him, and he winces.

She looks up at him, smiling and cross-legged, two bowls of cereal in her lap. She raises an eyebrow, amused, “Who would have seen that coming.” For a moment, he feels the urge to defend Kate. She shakes her head and pats the spot next to her, “Come eat with me.”

–-

She writhes under him, her body solid and seemingly real, her gasps and moans and smiles warm and wet and imaginary, “You're making me up,” and he swallows another pill, runs his hands through the sand and her hair, fights the tears back, “I'm so sorry.” She sits up, presses her lips against his, cups him through the denim, “I know. You're always sorry.”

-–

Juliet's grip around his wrist is almost painful, fingernails digging into his skin. She shudders, eyes fixed on Sawyer. His voice is flat and annoyed, his eyes blank, “Stop poisonin' yourself with this shit, Doc.”

--

“Someone's coming.” She points to the horizon.

He laughs sharply, sees nothing but water, “Really?” They haven't found Claire. Kate frowns, places a hand on his forehead, “You're burning up.”

Later, the Dharma symbol on the bottle grows hazy, and his hand shakes, spilling rum over his shirt and the blanket. The pills are almost gone now. Two of her fingers press against his mouth, push inside and down his throat, and he gags and retches, throws up.

Juliet's skin catches a streak of blue, pale moonlight. She blurs before his eyes, her smile sad and beautiful and regretting, and she guides his hand, his finger on the trigger. The gun almost feels (tastes) like the neck of a bottle between his lips. She says, “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

Fic: The Night Grows Pale

Sun, 17 May 2009 12:29:39 GMT

Title: The Night Grows Pale
Pairing: Kate/Juliet
Rating: light R
Warning: spoilers for The Incident
Word Count: 833
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. The title isn't, either.
A/N: Written for the alphabet meme, for lenina20 who requested Kiss (Juliet/Kate). Also for un_love_you: You remind me of someone.
Nominated at lost_fic_awards, best slash fic, June 2009

Her fingers flutter softly against the insides of her thighs, her hair and lips and tongue tickling her lower stomach. She squirms, can't suppress a quiet giggle, and it makes Juliet laugh, her open mouth puffing wet, hot breath into her bellybutton before she lifts her head to look at her, sweaty, blonde curls sticking to her cheeks and forehead.

She pulls her up until they lie chest to chest, lips and tongues fighting tentatively, frantically, peaked nipples rubbing against skin, slowly, their fingers entwined. Her stomach rumbles, and Juliet pulls back from the kiss, laughing again, the quiet, mild sound vibrating through their bodies. She can feel a warm blush creeping up her neck and cheeks, and she smiles, murmuring, “Sorry.”

“Hungry?” She shakes her head, and Juliet whispers, “Liar.”

--

Aaron stays over at a classmate's house, and Juliet stands at the kitchen counter, pale, smooth, naked skin glowing under the warm yellow light of the hanging lamp.

She asks, “So? What are we going to make for dinner?” Juliet turns her head, one corner of her mouth twitching, reaching out her hand, fluting, “It's taco night, darling.”

She doesn't falter, doesn't press her lips together, doesn't lift an eyebrow, “Wow, you read that in the files, too? They must have been pretty detailed.”

Juliet's smile widens, her eyes glistening playfully, dangerously, as she mouths a silent no.

--

She tells Cassidy on the phone, “No, don't come up.”

Two persons have her number. Cassidy is the only one who calls, from time to time, the one who helped her leave the States. She says, “I'm worried about you,” and, “I have to be careful. They are still looking for you.”

She almost rolls her eyes when she thinks about it. Ten years probation and confined to the state, and she gets on that plane to find the mother of her child, ending up in the Seventies trying to blow up the stupid island, and of course it doesn't work, and of course she doesn't open her eyes in Los Angeles, handcuffed, the captive of a man with a shrapnel in his body. She is a fugitive again nevertheless, Claire still missing, Juliet shattered on the bottom of the hatch.

Clementine tells her, “We miss you, Auntie Kate.” Cassidy's voice is calm, “Take care.”

Juliet kisses her, swallows her moan, buries two fingers inside her, assures, “They won't find you.”

--

Juliet's tongue traces her ear, and she shudders.

“Are you with them, too?”

Juliet looks at her, shakes her head softly, and her confused smile is so obviously fake that she can't help but laugh. She almost says it again then, This is crazy. She gulps it down; it's useless, meaningless, worn out.

“Why would I be?”

The hand on her chin slides down to lie against her neck, strong and threatening and soothing. Her own fingers twitch, but the gun in her drawer is long gone, waiting, sleeping in the darkest corner of her wardrobe. Juliet's mouth is on hers again, her icy-blue eyes open, and she whispers against her lips, ”And how should that be possible anyway? I'm right here.”

--

She sucks on Juliet's bottom lip, and she tastes stale and sour, the faint traces of alcohol and tears and vomit hiding under her tongue. It doesn't make her feel sick, not anymore, but she gasps, pulls back. Her own voice sounds bitterer than expected, “How is Jack?”

Juliet rolls off of her, sighs, touches her hand. She looks tired and sad and irritated, “Don't do this, Kate.”

--

Sometimes, seldom, she tastes like cigarettes and guilt and imaginary fish biscuits.

--

It haunts her nightmares, the rattling of the metal chain and the ringing of the telephone and Sawyer's voice, that first and last time - perhaps he doesn't dare to call her again - and the shrill, frightening sound of the doorbell two hours later, Juliet, pale, beautiful, breathing Juliet on her threshold, unharmed and ominous, Aaron in her arms.

When she wakes up, shaking, she is there, her lips breathing comfort across her heated skin.

She learns quickly that “Why won't you leave me?” doesn't work, no pleading and no crying and no “I'm sorry.” Soft kisses say, “It's okay. Don't run, Katie.”

--

There are no scars on Juliet's body except one, and she traces it with her fingertips. She asks, “What does it mean?” What the hell is going on? remains unsaid, taints the air around them.

Juliet looks at her, her smile always gracious and forgiving and wistful, “I don't know.”

She shrugs and leans down to kiss the mark on her lower back. Juliet trembles under her touch.

--

Juliet whispers it into the night, over and over again, glittering tears on her cheeks, “We are free.” Sometimes her voice wavers, her shaking fingers too tight, squeezing, bruising.

She puts one arm around her and presses her lips to her neck. The strong pulse under her tongue still frightens her.

Ficlet: The Tea That's Brewed Too Strong

Wed, 13 May 2009 17:54:32 GMT

Title: The Tea That's Brewed Too Strong
Characters: Juliet (Jack, Kate, Sawyer); mild Juliet/Jack
Rating: PG
Warning: character death, spoilers for Follow The Leader
Word Count: 352
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Title taken from the song Photographic Memory by Emilie Autumn (it's beautiful - go listen to it ;)).
A/N(1): Written for the alphabet meme, for jate92 who requested Heart (Juliet/Jack). Also for un_love_you: Always wondered what this'd be like.
A/N(2): I should stop writing about character deaths. But then, I really feel like I should be prepared for the finale. ~~Perhaps I'll start writing happy stuff afterwards. ;)~~
A/N(3) winner at lost_fic_awards, best het fic, May 2009

The tea is too hot and too strong, his smile awkward, Thanks. She wants to say, I'm sorry. Her tongue feels swollen inside her mouth, burned on the tea, and breathing is difficult. She drops the cup. It soaks her shirt, his jumpsuit. Suddenly, he's too close, one hand pressed against the small of her back.

(Claustrophobia strikes hard, punches the air out of her lungs. She asks, Where is Jack?)

She closes, opens her eyes.

(Kate tells them, furiously, We have to go b-, faltering, shaking her head, We have to stop him.)

His fingers flutter against her spine, his lips in her hair, on her temple, It's okay. It's going to be all right. I'll save you. She mutters, I don't need -

(He has a hydrogen bomb. He'll kill everyone. James sneers, spits the words out, Is that supposed to convince us?)

She hears, feels it, his heart beating loudly, violently, against his ribcage and in her ears. She rubs the tea stain, lifts her hand up to her eyes. Bright red glistens on her skin, and she frowns. She touches the base of his neck, Are you hurt?

(Her jaw tightens, and she looks at Kate, nods, We'll come with you. James snorts.)

The floor of their living room is too hard against her back. His voice wavers helplessly, Stay with me. She turns her head and watches the baby blue sky. James opens the door, - like the Dutch boy with your finger in the -, looks at them. His fist connects with Jack's jaw. She tries to protest, sit up, fails. Realization shoots through her body; she gasps, whimpers.

(James tells her, I love you. He looks guilty. A few hours later, she is the one to turn against him. She presses her lips together and doesn't cry.)

His fingers won't let go of hers. She shakes her head, weakly, You're running out of time. The grass around her is tea- or blood-soaked.

(Kate points the gun at Jack. He says, We can change it. This is why we're here.)

Half underwater, her breath stops fighting.

Drabble: Ain't Gonna Rain Anymore

Fri, 08 May 2009 22:20:13 GMT

Title: Ain't Gonna Rain Anymore
Character: Sawyer
Rating: PG
Warning: character death, very mild spoilers for Follow the Leader
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. The title isn't, either.
A/N: Written for the alphabet meme, for elliotsmelliot who requested Moonshine (Sawyer). (I'm sorry that this is so short.) Also for 30_wounds: Accept defeat.

He dies alone.

It's 1977, and not so far away an eight-year-old boy hides under his bed, his eyes fixed on a pair of cowboy boots. (His mommy said, Don't come out.)

The sub is long gone, the beach empty.

He almost curses, grinds his teeth, coughs up pain, groans. He can't see the damned moon: the night is black, and torrential rain pours down on him. Gurgling, he spits out blood, one hand pressed against the hole in his chest. That sonuvabitch didn't even shoot him properly. Missed the heart.

The jungle whispers, mocking him, It'll come back around.

Table: 30_wounds - General (Lost)

Fri, 08 May 2009 09:56:58 GMT

1. 'It's just a flesh wound'	2. Sharp tongue	3. Killing blow	4. Take it like a man	5. Catscratches
6. Die for you	7. Sadomasochism	8. Whipped	9. Black and blue	10. Hospital
11. Bandages	12. 'This hurts me more than it hurts you'	13. If looks could kill	14. Last one standing (Eloise/Charles)	15. Worth dying for
16. 'You're bleeding'	17. 'I fell down some stairs'	18. Kiss it better (Desmond/Claire)	19. Go down in flames	20. Infection
21. Accept defeat (Sawyer)	22. Let me see your scars	23. Bloodstains	24. Stabbed in the back	25. Will to live (Sawyer/Kate)
26. Die by your hand (Michael, Ana)	27. Battle fatigue (Kevin/Sawyer)	28. Papercut (Claire/Charlie/Juliet)	29. Drunken brawl	30. Heal

Fic: It'll Make Your Life A Lie

Tue, 05 May 2009 22:59:24 GMT

[Banner by janie_tangerine]

Title: It'll Make Your Life A Lie
Characters: Juliet, Rachel, Jack; Juliet/Jack, mentions of Juliet/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 993
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. And I don't own Too much love will kill you, either.
A/N: Written for the alphabet meme, for coffeecrisp7 who requested Forgiveness (Jack/Juliet). Also used for un_love_you, I'm broken.
winner at lost_fic_awards, best gen fic, May 2009
second place winner at lostfichallenge, challenge #93: Your Favorite Character

James touches her arm, her fingers, and kisses her goodbye, a brief brush of lips against lips. She barely feels it, tastes nothing, deliberately doesn't breathe in his scent. His eyes are averted, “I'll call you,” and she nods and forces a sharp smile and doesn't give him a phone number or an address.

Rachel is there, three hours later, laughing and crying, her arms closed too tightly around her, her hands on her face, and she curls up next to her in the too big hotel bed. Tainted happiness flutters inside her stomach, makes her chest hurt, won't let her sleep, and she lies awake, staring at the ceiling, grateful and free and guilty. She almost feels like the person she used to be, and she smiles unshed, blissful tears upon the too soft pillow.

This is all she wanted for the past six years and she won't let this moment be spoiled, and she fights it back, the regret and blame and failure and hurt, gulps it down, nearly chokes on it.

–-

“Why are you crying?” The ice cream melts quickly in the sun and trickles onto his shirt, leaving a wet trace of yellow and pink on blue. She smiles, “I'm just happy, sweetie.”

She pulls out a handkerchief, but Julian flees, running and stumbling across the beach. Rachel sits down on the blanket, smiling, a ridiculously big straw hat casting shadows over her face, calling, “Don't eat too much ice cream. I made muffins.”

A few weeks later, Robert and the kids move in, and it's loud and chaotic, laughter and torn up pillows and fights over toys and family dinners and barbecue parties, and it's cliché and normal and almost absurd, and she lies back and enjoys it. There's nothing fake in Rachel's smile, “I really love him.” (That's the difference.)

–-

She finds a job in a small hospital, and the only bad things that happen to her in four months are three premature births and one almost-miscarriage and occasional dreams.

(chest and head one two three four gunshots and ben falls and her hand trembles and a woman screams and james moans kate's name and jack tumbles and the world smells like blood and burnt flesh and tears and explodes before her eyes)

She doesn't miss it (him, them). She doesn't wince when the phone or the doorbell rings. She breathes steadily; she doesn't wait anymore.

Rachel delays setting up dates for her; she thinks it's too early. She goes out with colleagues anyway, flirts with businessmen and doctors and piano players and alcoholics and married men in filthy bars and expensive restaurants, empty eyes and open smiles, uncaring.

-–

She tells Rachel too much and too little, and she feels a not-deserved relief, Rachel's hand on her back, sympathetic, not understanding. The crucial, unspoken words die inside her too tight throat.

Her father says, “We should sue those Mittelos people.” Rachel protests, “Dad!”

She feels grateful, ashamed. She wishes her lips wouldn't refuse to move to talk about gunshot men and blood on her hands and betrayal and guilt. (Sometimes, Rachel looks at her as if she were an angel.)

--

It's their six month anniversary. She doesn't forget it, but she almost calls in sick.

The few people are scattered across the room, all dressed in black for their bizarre memorial service.

Kate stares into nothingness and ignores her, her arm around the sleeping blond boy in her lap, that woman (Cassidy, she pretends not to know her name) in the chair next to her. Sun hugs her once and never lets go of Jin's hand for the rest of the evening. Desmond is there for a couple of minutes, “Charlie and Penny have a cold,” before disappearing into the night. Jack is the only one who almost cries, sitting in a corner, his head bowed down, clinging to a glass of water. James (Sawyer) never shows up.

She doesn't feel anything. The stabbing pain in her chest is non-existent.

–-

He presses her against the wall, his hands closed around her upper arms. He's clean-shaven and doesn't tremble or smell of alcohol, and she clenches her hands at her sides.

It tastes like silence and desperation, and she pulls back, gasping, jerking her head away, colliding with the wall. It doesn't hurt, but his voice wavers and his fingers dig in deeper, “Sorry.” She feels like crying and rolling her eyes and says, “It's fine, Jack.”

The next kiss is frantic, his lips hard on hers until she gives in, relents, forgives. Her knee moves up between his legs, pressing against him. His whisper is warm and wet and groaning, “I wanted to call you. Nobody had your number,” his hand sliding down, pushing her dress up, and she nods and chooses to believe him. She knows he's using her. She doesn't say, I don't want you in my life. Instead it's a murmured “I'll call you,” before her fingers fumble with his zipper. (She has heard, used those words before.)

Kate's muffled voice stops them (“I should bring Aaron to bed”), and he kisses her again, and it's goodbye and I'm sorry. His hand is weak around her wrist. She leaves him in the dark hallway, his back towards her, leaning against the wall.

-–

The awkward nod feels endearing, annoying, his voice barely rising above a whisper, “You gave Sun your number, right?”

In her head, she pleads with him, Don't, and Just stay away. (She doesn't need saving.)

–-

Jack says, “Julian looks like you."

It makes her laugh against the back of his neck and shake her head, “Rachel bought an ice cream maker.”

He looks slightly younger when he smiles. The circles under his bloodshot eyes won't vanish.

--

(a gun in her mouth and a gun in her hand and pulling the trigger is easy and one two three four the world explodes I'll call you)

Fic: Empty Skies

Sun, 26 Apr 2009 22:27:04 GMT

Title: Empty Skies
Pairing: Ben/Juliet
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 612
Warning: mentioned character death(s)
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost.
A/N: Written for the alphabet meme, for phelipa who requested Apathy (Ben/Juliet). Also for un_love_you, Author's Choice: I don't care.
nominated at lost_fic_awards, best fic featuring an unusual pairing, May 2009

It's cold and damp, the sky clouded, and he's drenched to the skin and closer to panic than he has been in years. Banners announce a Happy New Year to everyone who bothers to look into the shop windows. Mrs. Litman bumps into him, wrinkly and cheerful and unbearable, fluting, “Have a nice evening, dear.” It's almost 1980.

He returns after nightfall and finds her in the living room, a book in her lap and a steaming cup of tea in her hand, and he bites back a sigh of relief. She doesn't look up, and her voice is as hollow as always. “I bought champagne. Thought we could celebrate the new year.”

--

She almost never leaves the house.

In the beginning, back then in 1977, he used to catch her reading flight schedules, her trembling finger landing on L.A. or searching for a way into the messed up life of a eight-year-old orphan who died a few blessed hours before it started, died peacefully with a bullet in his head in the same year he saw his daddy shooting his mommy and himself right into hell. She even bought a one way ticket to Miami once, tearing it to shreds three days later.

--

During the first night after they had left, she cried, fought, her face pressed into the pillow and her hands clutching the toilet bowl, retching and sobbing under the dim light of the cheap motel room, her grip almost breaking his fingers. That was the last time. The walls of their new home are paper-thin, and if she cries, she stays quiet.

--

At night, the door to her bedroom is always locked. She never lets him see her sleep.

--

When they fuck, it happens on her terms. She crawls into his bed and lies still and leaves as soon as it's over, or she turns to him in the middle of the day and lets him have her, on the couch or the kitchen counter or against the wall, continuing to prepare her already burnt meal or picking up her book right afterwards. She doesn't bother to fake lust or orgasms or any kind of emotion anymore, and every time she shudders or moans, he feels proud and pathetic and disgusted with himself.

--

Sitting on the couch or windowsill or floor, she spends her days with books - familiar books, books she has read before. He watches her, and she turns the pages, but her eyes don't move, unblinking, staring. A few times he buys her something new, and she nods, “Let me just finish this”. He gets a copy of Carrie and rereads it, and when he sits down next to her, she takes it and says, “I don't like discussing books.” Later, she puts it away, and it lies next to the broken record of Downtown like a bible in the drawer.

--

“I'll be back soon,” he tells her. She nods absent-mindedly, and he forces himself to smile, starting to pack his bag for another fake trip, without any idea where to go or what to do. He doesn't know why he even bothers to pretend that he has a plan, after all.

She brings the knife down, cutting the cabbage in half, “Perhaps we should have a baby.” She looks at him, smiling coldly, her fingers closed tightly around the hilt of the knife, her knuckles white. After a few seconds, she loosens her grip, her eyes turning blank, and the metal thuds against the kitchen counter. He sees blood, droplets of bright red on her pale skin, and she points to the oven. “The bread should be done.”