[fic] dig me up [unbury me]; lost, jack/marc; r
title; rating: dig me up [unbury me]; r
fandom, pairing; wordcount: lost, jack/marc; 830
notes: for ciaimpala who asked for jack, reunions, and au pairings, set sometime after Christian's memorial service
You won't recognize him, Margo's voice rings in Marc's ears. He's not the same person that we remember.
He remembers telling her he doesn't buy it, remembers telling her he'll take his chances anyway. He tells her that Jack just needs somebody to understand, that if there's anyone who can bring Jack back from the brink, it's him.
And yet here, standing at Jack's doorstep, he hesitates.
He takes a breath.
The door swings open.
Marc tries not to react to Jack's haggard appearance, a five o'clock shadow, a wrinkled t-shirt and dress pants, but his mouth gets the better of him. "Well," he says. "At least you look dead."
Jack smiles.
-
It takes a while for him to understand what Margo means, but there's something in Jack's eyes that gives it away. There's a darkness there that he's never seen before -- a barrier, keeping him at bay. They drink wine on the back patio and Jack tells him a story that sounds like it could be the truth, but belies what Marc feels in his gut.
There's something missing.
And Marc knows it.
The sun sets heavy, fast, like time is trying to rush whatever's about to happen next. Jack reaches across the table, a hand at the back of Marc's neck, a familiar look on his face.
"Let's go inside," he tells him.
Marc does.
-
Jack remembers freckles spread across an expanse of skin, he remembers warm flesh, and Marc's mouth rough, always greedy, always taking.
He takes comfort in the knowledge of these things, takes comfort in the fact that they're here now, in his bed and beneath rough hands and pressed against his mouth -- the taste of salt, and sweat, and life. He's pretty sure this is not why his old friend showed up tonight, but one look at Marc, looking somehow older -- despite the short months they'd been apart -- and Jack knows this is how they'll end up.
Here, he doesn't have to think of phantom coordinates - the longitude and latitude that haunts him now like his father's ghost once did before.
Marc makes a strangled noise in his throat, and Jack gets lost in the sound, falls into an erratic rhythm, lets himself forget the path that led him here.
This could be good, he thinks.
Forgetting.
This could be just fine.
-
Later, Marc sits next to Jack on the bed, his knees pulled to his chest.
Jack lays on his belly, his arms curled around the pillow beneath his head. He takes note of the scene. "It feels like we should be smoking or something," he says, thinks of the hard pack, half empty, hidden away in his top drawer, remembers the last time they smoked together.
Marc shakes his head. "We're too old for that now," he says half jokingly.
"You're probably right," Jack turns over, let's the sheet expose him for a moment before pulling it back to his waist.
"We're also too old to be keeping secrets," Marc says, this time his voice grave. Jack closes his eyes. What aren't you telling me? Marc's question remains unsaid.
"Did you know that my father had a daughter?" Jack says out loud. He figures it's as good a place to start as any.
Marc sinks low, joins Jack on the bed, puts his arms behind his head. "No," he says. "Tell me."
-
Jack tells Marc about the island.
The truth, this time. Jack swears.
And Marc can sense that too.
Jack tells him about the people they lost, the ones they left behind, about the sister he never really knew, about the sins that they committed, torture and even murder, in the simplest form of the word. He tells him of all the mistakes he made, of all the things he wishes he could have done differently. And finally he tells him about Aaron, tells him that Kate doesn't know. Not yet.
Slowly, Marc watches the darkness in Jack's eyes dissolve away, watches that barrier collapse. He reaches for Jack, pulls him close, tells him everything is going to be fine, tells Jack he's still the same person that he remembers.
He runs his hand over Jack's face, kisses his eyelids, willing the memories to rest, at least for a little while. This silent moment lasts only a short time, and Jack's mouth soon finds Marc's again, his body pressing him deep into the mattress. Marc knows this time will be rough, and he welcomes it, encourages it. He shares Jack's pain in their kiss and in their climax, in rough hands and harsh voices.
And maybe, he thinks, this is the only way that Jack can let go -- the only way for him to remember who he once was -- who he still can be.
To forget all of the things that makes him doubt it.
Soon, Marc cries out, Jack's name on his lips.
Jack falls, heavy at his side. He holds onto Marc until sleep overtakes him. And when he sleeps, his breathing falls into that steady rhythm that Marc remembers so vividly.
"I see you, Jack," Marc whispers. "I recognize you."
-fin
fandom, pairing; wordcount: lost, jack/marc; 830
notes: for ciaimpala who asked for jack, reunions, and au pairings, set sometime after Christian's memorial service
You won't recognize him, Margo's voice rings in Marc's ears. He's not the same person that we remember.
He remembers telling her he doesn't buy it, remembers telling her he'll take his chances anyway. He tells her that Jack just needs somebody to understand, that if there's anyone who can bring Jack back from the brink, it's him.
And yet here, standing at Jack's doorstep, he hesitates.
He takes a breath.
The door swings open.
Marc tries not to react to Jack's haggard appearance, a five o'clock shadow, a wrinkled t-shirt and dress pants, but his mouth gets the better of him. "Well," he says. "At least you look dead."
Jack smiles.
-
It takes a while for him to understand what Margo means, but there's something in Jack's eyes that gives it away. There's a darkness there that he's never seen before -- a barrier, keeping him at bay. They drink wine on the back patio and Jack tells him a story that sounds like it could be the truth, but belies what Marc feels in his gut.
There's something missing.
And Marc knows it.
The sun sets heavy, fast, like time is trying to rush whatever's about to happen next. Jack reaches across the table, a hand at the back of Marc's neck, a familiar look on his face.
"Let's go inside," he tells him.
Marc does.
-
Jack remembers freckles spread across an expanse of skin, he remembers warm flesh, and Marc's mouth rough, always greedy, always taking.
He takes comfort in the knowledge of these things, takes comfort in the fact that they're here now, in his bed and beneath rough hands and pressed against his mouth -- the taste of salt, and sweat, and life. He's pretty sure this is not why his old friend showed up tonight, but one look at Marc, looking somehow older -- despite the short months they'd been apart -- and Jack knows this is how they'll end up.
Here, he doesn't have to think of phantom coordinates - the longitude and latitude that haunts him now like his father's ghost once did before.
Marc makes a strangled noise in his throat, and Jack gets lost in the sound, falls into an erratic rhythm, lets himself forget the path that led him here.
This could be good, he thinks.
Forgetting.
This could be just fine.
-
Later, Marc sits next to Jack on the bed, his knees pulled to his chest.
Jack lays on his belly, his arms curled around the pillow beneath his head. He takes note of the scene. "It feels like we should be smoking or something," he says, thinks of the hard pack, half empty, hidden away in his top drawer, remembers the last time they smoked together.
Marc shakes his head. "We're too old for that now," he says half jokingly.
"You're probably right," Jack turns over, let's the sheet expose him for a moment before pulling it back to his waist.
"We're also too old to be keeping secrets," Marc says, this time his voice grave. Jack closes his eyes. What aren't you telling me? Marc's question remains unsaid.
"Did you know that my father had a daughter?" Jack says out loud. He figures it's as good a place to start as any.
Marc sinks low, joins Jack on the bed, puts his arms behind his head. "No," he says. "Tell me."
-
Jack tells Marc about the island.
The truth, this time. Jack swears.
And Marc can sense that too.
Jack tells him about the people they lost, the ones they left behind, about the sister he never really knew, about the sins that they committed, torture and even murder, in the simplest form of the word. He tells him of all the mistakes he made, of all the things he wishes he could have done differently. And finally he tells him about Aaron, tells him that Kate doesn't know. Not yet.
Slowly, Marc watches the darkness in Jack's eyes dissolve away, watches that barrier collapse. He reaches for Jack, pulls him close, tells him everything is going to be fine, tells Jack he's still the same person that he remembers.
He runs his hand over Jack's face, kisses his eyelids, willing the memories to rest, at least for a little while. This silent moment lasts only a short time, and Jack's mouth soon finds Marc's again, his body pressing him deep into the mattress. Marc knows this time will be rough, and he welcomes it, encourages it. He shares Jack's pain in their kiss and in their climax, in rough hands and harsh voices.
And maybe, he thinks, this is the only way that Jack can let go -- the only way for him to remember who he once was -- who he still can be.
To forget all of the things that makes him doubt it.
Soon, Marc cries out, Jack's name on his lips.
Jack falls, heavy at his side. He holds onto Marc until sleep overtakes him. And when he sleeps, his breathing falls into that steady rhythm that Marc remembers so vividly.
"I see you, Jack," Marc whispers. "I recognize you."
-fin