We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank - 4 drabbles/short oneshots
Title: We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank
Fandoms: Friday Night Lights, Twilight, Lost
Ships: Tim/Julie, Tim/Lyla, Jacob/Bella, Sawyer/Kate
This is my attempt at branching out from OTH fanfiction (I did try Heroes for awhile, but that didn't last *sigh*). Hopefully one of these fandoms will stick because right now OTH is full of fail and my writing inspiration is running dry. So enjoy! And review if you're feeling charitable.
Thanks to allxshexwrote for beta'ing the first three. Any mistakes in the last one are all my own.
Nothing Good Comes in Excess
They would never work.
She chants this to herself while scratching out calculus formulas in the corners of her notes.
Right now, she wants experience (not the kind he excels in) and culture (Coronas and pick up trucks with rattling motors don’t count).
She cares (too much) for the little details. She whines when everything doesn’t shift into its right place, and when he’s not looking, she counts the strands of hair that fall into his eyes.
He cares, oddly placed sentiments that would always be too little, too late.
Her name is a letter too long, and her body’s a foot too short. She’s a year too young with parents too attentive and more loving than he could ever imagine.
Too much. It would never work.
But she feels his eyes on her back every time she turns from him. It burns, leaves untraceable marks.
She imagines the burn might have been enough to pacify the cares. But before it can settle in, he’s gone for good.
Or maybe she imagined he was ever there.
Fire & Ice
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Characters/Pairing(s): Lyla Garrity, Tim/Lyla, some Jason/Lyla
Word Count: 473
She’s eight when she gets her first kiss.
It’s a snow day, a rarity in Texas, and all the town has shut down in what is nothing more than a celebration of precious frozen water.
All the kids build forts in the center of town and play hide n’ go seek. When Jason finds her, he grins and presses his lips against hers quickly, before moving on to find his next victim.
Lyla stands in awe, trying to replay the moment in her head, but all that registers is cold.
That Riggins kid tugs on her sleeve, and she nearly curses at him for breaking her concentration.
“You’re missing a glove,” he says.
“Oh,” she says blankly. When did she manage to lose that…
He rolls his eyes at her when she offers no solution and sticks his index finger between his teeth, pulling off his own glove. When he takes her bare hand in his, all she can think is ‘how in the hell does he manage to feel so warm at 10 below?’
“There you go, Garrity,” he grunts, securing his glove around her hand.
“But now you’re gonna freeze,” she mutters.
He just shakes his head and laughs, before jogging back to Jason. Lyla wiggles her fingers within the glove, feeling the warmth spread back through her numb digits.
It’s the first and one of the few times she thanks God for Tim Riggins.
---
The air conditioner sounds like it’s breaking in the hospital waiting room, and Lyla wishes it would give out right then and there because the cool streams of air are shooting out right over her shoulders, freezing her blood.
When they let Lyla see Jason after the accident, the first thing she notices is how cold his hand feels against hers.
She rubs circles against the clammy skin with her thumb, but it’s to no avail. Her hands are just as icy as his.
She can’t fix it. Nowadays, it seems like she can’t fix anything.
---
She slaps and punches and yells, and he takes it, doesn’t move an inch to protest. Her tears fall in tandem with his sways, arms wrapped around her. She falls apart at the seams, and all she can think as she does is how unfair it is.
He walks a mile in a rainstorm and still burns under her fingertips.
It’s only natural, then, when she melts into him, lips aligning and fusing together like puzzle pieces. She grabs hold of all the heat she can steal from him. She tugs and pulls and plunders and he just gives and gives, like always.
----
What do you want from your life, Lyla? Tami asks, and Lyla looks down at her lap, cold hands folded over each other.
The honest answer…
Warmth.
She’ll take it by any means necessary.
Counting Sheep
Fandom: Twilight
Characters/Pairing: Jacob, Jacob/Bella
Word Count:502
Bella and Jacob are connected, like soul mates and star crossed lovers only you’d never catch Jacob phrasing it that way.
Because Bella’s the one who lives in fairytales. She’s comfortable spinning her life into something epic and tragic.
He prefers a life etched in the normal and mundane. Yes, he’s a werewolf and that’s fantasy wrapped up in a nutshell. But it’s only a sliver of who he is. He’s cocky and bold and funny and damn good looking (and did he mention cocky?).
He’s not comfortable playing the part of romantic hero. He’s not fond of masking his tragic flaws, the ones that will undoubtedly be his undoing. He knows he’s not perfect. He knows that half the battles he fights will end in heartache. He wears them like a battle scar, carved into the flex of his muscles and the dimples of his cheeks.
Unlike Edward, Bella’s knight in shining armor, Jacob doesn’t need to hide behind false illusions of grand ardor to pretend to mask his pain. When Jacob cries, when he hurts, he does it so Bella can see it and feel it.
It’s not what tragic heroes would do. It’s sneaky and cruel and incredibly human.
But that’s the one thing he’s always had over Edward.
Humanity.
----
What he loves most about Bella, is not her smile or her laugh. It’s not the way she scrunches her nose when she’s thinking about something important or bites her lip right after she’s said something she knows has hurt him. It’s not the sparkle in her eyes when she makes him laugh or traces of excitement that linger in her voice when she talks about doing something adventurous.
No, what he loves most are her freckles. The small faded brown spots, speckled across her nose and cheeks. She never talks about them, likes to pretend they don’t exist, but Jacob’s always noticed they were there, even as kids.
He kind of thinks they’re her tragic flaw because she’s hell bent on being a vampire, but he’s never seen a vampire with freckles, and he hopes in his heart he never will.
-----
When he spends the night, snuggled against Bella trying his best to keep her from going hypothermic and all the while keeping an eye out for the vampire foaming at the mouth in the corner, he decides that there’s no point in sleeping, not when this could be the only time he gets to be this close to Bella. Close enough to see the freckles. Close enough to count them.
One, two, three, four, five.six.seven, eight-
“Are you counting, Jacob?” Edward murmurs from the corner. Jacob forgot about the whole ‘mind reading’ thing.
“Yes,” he grunts.
Nine, ten, eleven.twelve, thirteen, fourteen-
“What are you counting?” Edward asks. It appears conversational, but Jacob knows it’s anything but.
“Sheep,” he lies, muttering the word against the skin of Bella’s neck.
It’s sort of silly and kind of normal, and most importantly, definitely something Edward would never understand.
The Secret’s in the Telling
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairing(s): Kate, Sawyer/Kate, some Jack/Kate
Word Count: 1,313
He drops the infant in her hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and she’d curse if it wasn’t for the fact that she asked for this. The irony of it drums against her temple to an erratic beat. Aaron is born to her from the same callus hands that denied her.
She watches those hands swing like pendulums through the breaks in the forest and pulls her…son closer.
She doesn’t have time to dwell.
----
At the beginning, it’s easy to forget because there’s really nothing to remember. No scars from where the cage bars dug into her wrist or sweet nothings etched into the back of her brain. There are distant memories though of white sand and coursing fear and pent up desire and…
Love.
Love’s the vaguest of all.
Still, it will hit her at the strangest moments. She’ll be washing clothes or loading beer into the fridge when a memory-just a flash of deep blue eyes-will overtake her and her knees will buckle.
It leaves as fast as it comes, and she’ll straighten and up and pretend like nothing ever happened.
---
She closes her eyes whenever Jack leans into kiss her. She’s forgotten whether this is the normal thing to do or if it’s just become natural. It’s easier this way. The first few times they make love it’s easy enough to disappear within his embrace. To keep on forgetting. Eyes closed, saturated in feeling.
If she opens her eyes, she’s afraid of what she’ll see.
And then it happens, the scratch of his stubble, tickles her cheek.
She sees a tiny bedroom and soft white cotton sheets and a southern drawl. A memory triggered, and she wants to shout out his name. She bites her lip and cries tears that can disguise themselves as joy.
The next day there’s a razor waiting for him on the sink.
He doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell.
---
Everyone deserves a family, Freckles.
She believes in that, and she believes in honesty. She can pretend all she wants that Aaron is her son, but some day she’ll have to give him a piece of the truth. So she takes Sawyer’s final request-find Aaron’s grandfather-, and runs with it.
She doesn’t ask why his grandfather because she assumes it’s something Claire shared with him. (She doesn’t dwell on why that thought makes her eyes narrow).
She doesn’t bother wasting time once she’s finally free, and she doesn’t even flinch when some traces come back about Christian Shephard because she’s too engrossed in the search to see the forest from the trees.
She doesn’t tell Jack.
She doesn’t do a lot of things.
---
When Jack shuns the idea of Aaron, she recoils. It’s a hard thing to do, but her love for Aaron trumps everything in her new life. (A whisper in the back of her head says, Who gave you him? but it’s hushed by the every-days and the new memories)
When Jack comes around, he reads to Aaron, bed time stories of magic and monsters and princes and knights in shiny armor.
Kate thinks of her time on the island as one big dysfunctional fairytale. This here, Aaron and Jack, is her shot at a functional one.
No chains around her wrists and ankles. No shadows that follow too closely. She is an independent woman, wealthy from the settlement and working towards getting a degree just for the hell of it. She’s got the loving, caring, devoted fiance and a hell of a rock weighing down her left hand. She’s settled and secure.
But tigers don’t change their stripes.
Who told you that?
She can’t ignore the voice much longer.
---
She loves Jack.
He’s not just a substitute or a two dimensional hero in her functional fairytale. No he’s the safe haven she always wanted. He’s just not enough. There is this insatiable hunger within her. It shifts and expands and twists. She’s always going to love him, and his pain will always be her pain. It’s a cross she carries every time she breaks his heart (and she tends to do that a lot).
She’s been good about suppressing the id, knows all the right moves to keep him from thinking she’s unhappy.
But when he just won’t let it go, she slips, raises the sledgehammer above her head, strikes the chain four times…
“For him. For Sawyer.”
And shatters it.
---
If you think there’s anything waiting for you back home other than handcuffs, then you really don’t know how the world works.
The voice is getting louder.
---
When it’s all said and done, the dust doesn’t ever seem to settle. She packs up Jack’s things in boxes and sends them back to him one at a time. Everything she touches sends a flood of vivid details back to her, adding up to a slideshow of their life post-island. Memories of Jack are sharper, like a large cut across her chest. It bleeds for her to see, and will leave a scar that reminds her of the open wound.
Memories of him are blurred and dulled and still surprise her constantly. There is no defined trigger, no entrance point to a wound she desperately wants healed.
Internal bleeding.
It will kill her slowly.
---
No one has ever bothered asking Kate who Aaron’s father is. She briefly thought of what she’d tell people if they asked, but no one ever did and so the thought slipped away. So when the question does arise, she’s blinded. Her widened eyes are mistaken for embarrassment and fear.
Kate feels the biting sting of “I don’t know” like bile in the back of her throat. It tastes like failure, humbling.
She glances back at Aaron, bright blue eyes locking with hers as he stuffs sand into his tiny pale.
The answer comes to her as plain as day.
Sawyer was a jackass. He was cruel and untrusting and entirely devoid of compassion most of the time. He always kept her at arms length and never saw the future. He lived from moment to moment. But she loves him.
These memories that linger and pop up from time to time, she won’t ever forget. How could she forget him? He is more a part of her than anyone she’s ever met. When she glances in a mirror, she sees him staring back.
He gave her this child. He placed her future in her arms. He gave her something to keep her sane, keep her straight. Something to live for.
This boy that she calls son was a gift from him.
Dysfunctional fairytales swirl in her head.
---
She travels down to Jasper, Alabama (‘it’s for Aaron,’ she tells her parole officer) and asks where she can find James Ford. The townspeople give her funny looks but don’t say a word, just point her in the direction of the cemetery. A small collection had been taken up to get him a grave marker.
She laughs at just how the world works, how a conman becomes a hero overnight, and all he has to do is die tragically.
She cries as soon as she sees it. She knows it’s stupid. He’s alive and kicking on that island, probably playing leader. Still, seeing his name there, etched on cold marble makes it feel real because he is dead to this world.
She lets Aaron down from her arms and kneels behind him, cheek pressed to the side of his ear. He stares at the letters on the front of the headstone and waits for him to say something.
“What’s that say?” Aaron finally asks.
“James Ford.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s your daddy,” she says, as she burrows her head into his hair, a few tears escaping.
It’s the most honest lie she ever told.
---
Cross posted at: fridaynight_fic, tim_julie timxlyla, twilight_fics sortofbeautiful lost_fanfic sawyer_kate
A/N: I’m sorry if you just happen to be a member of a whole bunch of these communities and I spammed the shit out of your FList (but hey! If that’s the case yay for us having so much in common…)
Comments are love. Seeing as I this is my first real attempt at any of these fandoms some feedback would be truly appreciated. :)
Fandoms: Friday Night Lights, Twilight, Lost
Ships: Tim/Julie, Tim/Lyla, Jacob/Bella, Sawyer/Kate
This is my attempt at branching out from OTH fanfiction (I did try Heroes for awhile, but that didn't last *sigh*). Hopefully one of these fandoms will stick because right now OTH is full of fail and my writing inspiration is running dry. So enjoy! And review if you're feeling charitable.
Thanks to allxshexwrote for beta'ing the first three. Any mistakes in the last one are all my own.
Nothing Good Comes in Excess
They would never work.
She chants this to herself while scratching out calculus formulas in the corners of her notes.
Right now, she wants experience (not the kind he excels in) and culture (Coronas and pick up trucks with rattling motors don’t count).
She cares (too much) for the little details. She whines when everything doesn’t shift into its right place, and when he’s not looking, she counts the strands of hair that fall into his eyes.
He cares, oddly placed sentiments that would always be too little, too late.
Her name is a letter too long, and her body’s a foot too short. She’s a year too young with parents too attentive and more loving than he could ever imagine.
Too much. It would never work.
But she feels his eyes on her back every time she turns from him. It burns, leaves untraceable marks.
She imagines the burn might have been enough to pacify the cares. But before it can settle in, he’s gone for good.
Or maybe she imagined he was ever there.
Fire & Ice
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Characters/Pairing(s): Lyla Garrity, Tim/Lyla, some Jason/Lyla
Word Count: 473
She’s eight when she gets her first kiss.
It’s a snow day, a rarity in Texas, and all the town has shut down in what is nothing more than a celebration of precious frozen water.
All the kids build forts in the center of town and play hide n’ go seek. When Jason finds her, he grins and presses his lips against hers quickly, before moving on to find his next victim.
Lyla stands in awe, trying to replay the moment in her head, but all that registers is cold.
That Riggins kid tugs on her sleeve, and she nearly curses at him for breaking her concentration.
“You’re missing a glove,” he says.
“Oh,” she says blankly. When did she manage to lose that…
He rolls his eyes at her when she offers no solution and sticks his index finger between his teeth, pulling off his own glove. When he takes her bare hand in his, all she can think is ‘how in the hell does he manage to feel so warm at 10 below?’
“There you go, Garrity,” he grunts, securing his glove around her hand.
“But now you’re gonna freeze,” she mutters.
He just shakes his head and laughs, before jogging back to Jason. Lyla wiggles her fingers within the glove, feeling the warmth spread back through her numb digits.
It’s the first and one of the few times she thanks God for Tim Riggins.
---
The air conditioner sounds like it’s breaking in the hospital waiting room, and Lyla wishes it would give out right then and there because the cool streams of air are shooting out right over her shoulders, freezing her blood.
When they let Lyla see Jason after the accident, the first thing she notices is how cold his hand feels against hers.
She rubs circles against the clammy skin with her thumb, but it’s to no avail. Her hands are just as icy as his.
She can’t fix it. Nowadays, it seems like she can’t fix anything.
---
She slaps and punches and yells, and he takes it, doesn’t move an inch to protest. Her tears fall in tandem with his sways, arms wrapped around her. She falls apart at the seams, and all she can think as she does is how unfair it is.
He walks a mile in a rainstorm and still burns under her fingertips.
It’s only natural, then, when she melts into him, lips aligning and fusing together like puzzle pieces. She grabs hold of all the heat she can steal from him. She tugs and pulls and plunders and he just gives and gives, like always.
----
What do you want from your life, Lyla? Tami asks, and Lyla looks down at her lap, cold hands folded over each other.
The honest answer…
Warmth.
She’ll take it by any means necessary.
Counting Sheep
Fandom: Twilight
Characters/Pairing: Jacob, Jacob/Bella
Word Count:502
Bella and Jacob are connected, like soul mates and star crossed lovers only you’d never catch Jacob phrasing it that way.
Because Bella’s the one who lives in fairytales. She’s comfortable spinning her life into something epic and tragic.
He prefers a life etched in the normal and mundane. Yes, he’s a werewolf and that’s fantasy wrapped up in a nutshell. But it’s only a sliver of who he is. He’s cocky and bold and funny and damn good looking (and did he mention cocky?).
He’s not comfortable playing the part of romantic hero. He’s not fond of masking his tragic flaws, the ones that will undoubtedly be his undoing. He knows he’s not perfect. He knows that half the battles he fights will end in heartache. He wears them like a battle scar, carved into the flex of his muscles and the dimples of his cheeks.
Unlike Edward, Bella’s knight in shining armor, Jacob doesn’t need to hide behind false illusions of grand ardor to pretend to mask his pain. When Jacob cries, when he hurts, he does it so Bella can see it and feel it.
It’s not what tragic heroes would do. It’s sneaky and cruel and incredibly human.
But that’s the one thing he’s always had over Edward.
Humanity.
----
What he loves most about Bella, is not her smile or her laugh. It’s not the way she scrunches her nose when she’s thinking about something important or bites her lip right after she’s said something she knows has hurt him. It’s not the sparkle in her eyes when she makes him laugh or traces of excitement that linger in her voice when she talks about doing something adventurous.
No, what he loves most are her freckles. The small faded brown spots, speckled across her nose and cheeks. She never talks about them, likes to pretend they don’t exist, but Jacob’s always noticed they were there, even as kids.
He kind of thinks they’re her tragic flaw because she’s hell bent on being a vampire, but he’s never seen a vampire with freckles, and he hopes in his heart he never will.
-----
When he spends the night, snuggled against Bella trying his best to keep her from going hypothermic and all the while keeping an eye out for the vampire foaming at the mouth in the corner, he decides that there’s no point in sleeping, not when this could be the only time he gets to be this close to Bella. Close enough to see the freckles. Close enough to count them.
One, two, three, four, five.six.seven, eight-
“Are you counting, Jacob?” Edward murmurs from the corner. Jacob forgot about the whole ‘mind reading’ thing.
“Yes,” he grunts.
Nine, ten, eleven.twelve, thirteen, fourteen-
“What are you counting?” Edward asks. It appears conversational, but Jacob knows it’s anything but.
“Sheep,” he lies, muttering the word against the skin of Bella’s neck.
It’s sort of silly and kind of normal, and most importantly, definitely something Edward would never understand.
The Secret’s in the Telling
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairing(s): Kate, Sawyer/Kate, some Jack/Kate
Word Count: 1,313
He drops the infant in her hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and she’d curse if it wasn’t for the fact that she asked for this. The irony of it drums against her temple to an erratic beat. Aaron is born to her from the same callus hands that denied her.
She watches those hands swing like pendulums through the breaks in the forest and pulls her…son closer.
She doesn’t have time to dwell.
----
At the beginning, it’s easy to forget because there’s really nothing to remember. No scars from where the cage bars dug into her wrist or sweet nothings etched into the back of her brain. There are distant memories though of white sand and coursing fear and pent up desire and…
Love.
Love’s the vaguest of all.
Still, it will hit her at the strangest moments. She’ll be washing clothes or loading beer into the fridge when a memory-just a flash of deep blue eyes-will overtake her and her knees will buckle.
It leaves as fast as it comes, and she’ll straighten and up and pretend like nothing ever happened.
---
She closes her eyes whenever Jack leans into kiss her. She’s forgotten whether this is the normal thing to do or if it’s just become natural. It’s easier this way. The first few times they make love it’s easy enough to disappear within his embrace. To keep on forgetting. Eyes closed, saturated in feeling.
If she opens her eyes, she’s afraid of what she’ll see.
And then it happens, the scratch of his stubble, tickles her cheek.
She sees a tiny bedroom and soft white cotton sheets and a southern drawl. A memory triggered, and she wants to shout out his name. She bites her lip and cries tears that can disguise themselves as joy.
The next day there’s a razor waiting for him on the sink.
He doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell.
---
Everyone deserves a family, Freckles.
She believes in that, and she believes in honesty. She can pretend all she wants that Aaron is her son, but some day she’ll have to give him a piece of the truth. So she takes Sawyer’s final request-find Aaron’s grandfather-, and runs with it.
She doesn’t ask why his grandfather because she assumes it’s something Claire shared with him. (She doesn’t dwell on why that thought makes her eyes narrow).
She doesn’t bother wasting time once she’s finally free, and she doesn’t even flinch when some traces come back about Christian Shephard because she’s too engrossed in the search to see the forest from the trees.
She doesn’t tell Jack.
She doesn’t do a lot of things.
---
When Jack shuns the idea of Aaron, she recoils. It’s a hard thing to do, but her love for Aaron trumps everything in her new life. (A whisper in the back of her head says, Who gave you him? but it’s hushed by the every-days and the new memories)
When Jack comes around, he reads to Aaron, bed time stories of magic and monsters and princes and knights in shiny armor.
Kate thinks of her time on the island as one big dysfunctional fairytale. This here, Aaron and Jack, is her shot at a functional one.
No chains around her wrists and ankles. No shadows that follow too closely. She is an independent woman, wealthy from the settlement and working towards getting a degree just for the hell of it. She’s got the loving, caring, devoted fiance and a hell of a rock weighing down her left hand. She’s settled and secure.
But tigers don’t change their stripes.
Who told you that?
She can’t ignore the voice much longer.
---
She loves Jack.
He’s not just a substitute or a two dimensional hero in her functional fairytale. No he’s the safe haven she always wanted. He’s just not enough. There is this insatiable hunger within her. It shifts and expands and twists. She’s always going to love him, and his pain will always be her pain. It’s a cross she carries every time she breaks his heart (and she tends to do that a lot).
She’s been good about suppressing the id, knows all the right moves to keep him from thinking she’s unhappy.
But when he just won’t let it go, she slips, raises the sledgehammer above her head, strikes the chain four times…
“For him. For Sawyer.”
And shatters it.
---
If you think there’s anything waiting for you back home other than handcuffs, then you really don’t know how the world works.
The voice is getting louder.
---
When it’s all said and done, the dust doesn’t ever seem to settle. She packs up Jack’s things in boxes and sends them back to him one at a time. Everything she touches sends a flood of vivid details back to her, adding up to a slideshow of their life post-island. Memories of Jack are sharper, like a large cut across her chest. It bleeds for her to see, and will leave a scar that reminds her of the open wound.
Memories of him are blurred and dulled and still surprise her constantly. There is no defined trigger, no entrance point to a wound she desperately wants healed.
Internal bleeding.
It will kill her slowly.
---
No one has ever bothered asking Kate who Aaron’s father is. She briefly thought of what she’d tell people if they asked, but no one ever did and so the thought slipped away. So when the question does arise, she’s blinded. Her widened eyes are mistaken for embarrassment and fear.
Kate feels the biting sting of “I don’t know” like bile in the back of her throat. It tastes like failure, humbling.
She glances back at Aaron, bright blue eyes locking with hers as he stuffs sand into his tiny pale.
The answer comes to her as plain as day.
Sawyer was a jackass. He was cruel and untrusting and entirely devoid of compassion most of the time. He always kept her at arms length and never saw the future. He lived from moment to moment. But she loves him.
These memories that linger and pop up from time to time, she won’t ever forget. How could she forget him? He is more a part of her than anyone she’s ever met. When she glances in a mirror, she sees him staring back.
He gave her this child. He placed her future in her arms. He gave her something to keep her sane, keep her straight. Something to live for.
This boy that she calls son was a gift from him.
Dysfunctional fairytales swirl in her head.
---
She travels down to Jasper, Alabama (‘it’s for Aaron,’ she tells her parole officer) and asks where she can find James Ford. The townspeople give her funny looks but don’t say a word, just point her in the direction of the cemetery. A small collection had been taken up to get him a grave marker.
She laughs at just how the world works, how a conman becomes a hero overnight, and all he has to do is die tragically.
She cries as soon as she sees it. She knows it’s stupid. He’s alive and kicking on that island, probably playing leader. Still, seeing his name there, etched on cold marble makes it feel real because he is dead to this world.
She lets Aaron down from her arms and kneels behind him, cheek pressed to the side of his ear. He stares at the letters on the front of the headstone and waits for him to say something.
“What’s that say?” Aaron finally asks.
“James Ford.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s your daddy,” she says, as she burrows her head into his hair, a few tears escaping.
It’s the most honest lie she ever told.
---
Cross posted at: fridaynight_fic, tim_julie timxlyla, twilight_fics sortofbeautiful lost_fanfic sawyer_kate
A/N: I’m sorry if you just happen to be a member of a whole bunch of these communities and I spammed the shit out of your FList (but hey! If that’s the case yay for us having so much in common…)
Comments are love. Seeing as I this is my first real attempt at any of these fandoms some feedback would be truly appreciated. :)