Some Already Dead
Title: Some Already Dead
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: It's ironic, she thinks, some sort of cruel joke, the way she no longer knows how to be alone.
Spoilers: through The End
Notes: For lenina20 at Five Acts Round 3. She wanted Kate/Sawyer and motels and quick/rushed. The title is from Ray LaMontagne's Empty. Also for un_love_you #6: I want to need you.
Originally posted 1/17/11 here.
It starts when she's first able to leave Aaron alone with Claire.
There's no good reason she calls him, except for the way Claire makes her promise to not be gone too long, the way Aaron barely looks up when she says goodbye.
(It's ironic, she thinks, some sort of cruel joke, the way she no longer knows how to be alone.)
It starts, and then she doesn't know how to stop it.
They meet at the same motel, always, and it's almost like before, when she was running. Pay cash. Don't stay long. They start out in the bar, she downing courage in rum and he with his hands wrapped around a beer he never drinks. He's silent, doesn't ever look at her, until she speaks, finally.
“I told her I'd only be gone an hour or two.” It's almost scripted; this is the way it always goes. She's stopped expecting otherwise. He looks at her then, finally, and she has to look away because she can't stand the loneliness in his eyes.
She walks ahead of him.
They leave the room dark, no need to turn on a lamp, because if nothing else (and maybe there is nothing else, she can't be sure anymore), they've always been able to find their way on each other's skin.
“I don't have much time,” she reminds him again, and it's like a switch flicks and he comes alive, touches her like she's alive, too. It's rushed and frantic and they don't even undress all the way, and if she closes her eyes (she always closes her eyes) she can almost imagine how it used to be. He's heavy on top of her and she loses her breath, and if she tilts her hips just so, she can coax a groan out of him.
He holds her hips tightly and she presses her fingertips into his back, and it comes back to them, maybe. Freckles, is what she thinks she hears, once, perhaps, and she arches and comes on the heady memory of it all. He comes soon after, and she tastes the salt on his face.
After, he holds her hand as they walk past the bar again. It's the one concession they allow each other. You're not the only one who lost someone, she wants to say, but she just holds on tighter before they have to let go.
When she gets home, Aaron's already in bed. She sits beside him, listens to Claire moving around, cleaning up his toys in the other room. She can still feel him on her skin.
She's never felt more alone.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: It's ironic, she thinks, some sort of cruel joke, the way she no longer knows how to be alone.
Spoilers: through The End
Notes: For lenina20 at Five Acts Round 3. She wanted Kate/Sawyer and motels and quick/rushed. The title is from Ray LaMontagne's Empty. Also for un_love_you #6: I want to need you.
Originally posted 1/17/11 here.
It starts when she's first able to leave Aaron alone with Claire.
There's no good reason she calls him, except for the way Claire makes her promise to not be gone too long, the way Aaron barely looks up when she says goodbye.
(It's ironic, she thinks, some sort of cruel joke, the way she no longer knows how to be alone.)
It starts, and then she doesn't know how to stop it.
They meet at the same motel, always, and it's almost like before, when she was running. Pay cash. Don't stay long. They start out in the bar, she downing courage in rum and he with his hands wrapped around a beer he never drinks. He's silent, doesn't ever look at her, until she speaks, finally.
“I told her I'd only be gone an hour or two.” It's almost scripted; this is the way it always goes. She's stopped expecting otherwise. He looks at her then, finally, and she has to look away because she can't stand the loneliness in his eyes.
She walks ahead of him.
They leave the room dark, no need to turn on a lamp, because if nothing else (and maybe there is nothing else, she can't be sure anymore), they've always been able to find their way on each other's skin.
“I don't have much time,” she reminds him again, and it's like a switch flicks and he comes alive, touches her like she's alive, too. It's rushed and frantic and they don't even undress all the way, and if she closes her eyes (she always closes her eyes) she can almost imagine how it used to be. He's heavy on top of her and she loses her breath, and if she tilts her hips just so, she can coax a groan out of him.
He holds her hips tightly and she presses her fingertips into his back, and it comes back to them, maybe. Freckles, is what she thinks she hears, once, perhaps, and she arches and comes on the heady memory of it all. He comes soon after, and she tastes the salt on his face.
After, he holds her hand as they walk past the bar again. It's the one concession they allow each other. You're not the only one who lost someone, she wants to say, but she just holds on tighter before they have to let go.
When she gets home, Aaron's already in bed. She sits beside him, listens to Claire moving around, cleaning up his toys in the other room. She can still feel him on her skin.
She's never felt more alone.