Lost fic: Red Sky [general, future]
Warnings: General spoilers through the first part of season 2. Future fic. More angsty than usual.
Disclaimer: Lost belongs to ABC, JJ Abrams, etc., not to me. No infringement intended.
Warnings: General spoilers through the first part of season 2. Future fic. More angsty than usual.
Author's notes: Inspired by the fanfic100 prompt "Red" although I don't think this one qualifies toward my claim on Sawyer.
Red Sky
by eponine119
October 29, 2005
The sky turned red. That was how they knew.
They all went a little bit crazy after that.
…
It wasn't anybody's fault. That was what Jack took the hardest of all. If someone had walked away from their post, he would have had someone else to blame, someone to vent his fury upon.
But Hurley put the numbers in just the way he was supposed to. It wasn't his fault that there was a tiny break in the wires threading through the keyboard, so that when he pressed the "execute" button, the command never reached the processor. He pressed it and pressed it and pressed it and stared as the seconds counted down. When they reached zero, he tensed and waited for something to happen. No alarms blared. The counter simply flipped back to 108, just as it would have if the numbers had been input the way they were supposed to be.
After a sigh of relief, he ran out of the hatch to tell them all the good news. He reached the open air with a shout just as the first streaks were appearing in the sky. Hurley froze, with jubilation dying on his lips, his head sinking down guiltily between his shoulders.
No one said anything. No one had to. Perhaps there was a whisper or a nudge at first, but everyone just stopped what they were doing and looked up, slack jawed, damp eyed. Knowing.
The red was indescribable. It might have been more bearable if it had been primary or crayola or the color of blood. But it was the most beautiful shade any of them had ever seen. It was hibiscus; it was a mouth that had just been kissed; it was orange and red and yellow all at the same time, so red and so beautiful it hurt to look. None of them could look away. Waiting for it to end.
It didn't. It didn't get darker or lighter, it just intensified, and still they waited. Waited for a sound, waited for that bright telltale doomsday flash that had threatened them their entire lives, but it never came. Just the redness of the sky.
"We're going to die," Shannon said, breaking the silence with a shaking voice. Saying what none of the rest of them would. She looked at Jack with eyes filled with accusation, and he did the only thing he could. He looked to Hurley.
"They're cursed," Hurley whispered, his skin pale beneath his freckles. "I'm cursed." He raised his head and looked at Jack. "I put them in. I pressed the button. But nothing happened. It went back to 108 and nothing happened and I came up here to tell you that we're free, but…" He broke off, looking at the ground so none of them would see the tears welling in his eyes because he knew, or thought he knew, that this was his fault.
"Red sky at night," Sawyer said, the weary sigh in his voice defeating his ironic tone. "Sailor's delight." But there wouldn't be another raft. No raft, no rescue boat, no plane overhead. No one was coming for them now.
"On the beach," Claire whispered, cuddling her infant son closer to her, as though to shield his eyes from the redness of the sky. "On the beach." It was the title of a book, about Australia, a fiction book about waiting for the radioactive cloud to come and kill you. She'd never read the book. Now she never would.
"We were chosen," Locke murmured, mostly to himself, lifting his face to the sky as though he could feel the colors on his skin. This was their destiny.
After awhile, they had to stop staring. It didn't change, and there were still things to be done. Dinner to be caught and prepared, clothes to wash, the fire to be fed. A few people walked away, to be alone with this new reality. Most of them stayed on the beach, stayed close. Afraid to live with the knowledge that now they were truly alone.
Kate sat on the beach and watched the waves. The way she always did when she wanted Jack to come to her. It was her siren's call and he could so rarely resist. Today she sat and her hair tangled in the wind and she waited to see if the water would turn some shade other than blue, but Jack didn't sit next to her, didn't put his arms around her, didn't whisper that it would be all right and that she was free now, truly free, not hunted or a victim any more.
Charlie sat down. His hands were shaking, black-painted nails wavering. "I wrote 12 songs. An album. I was going to be famous when we got back. Really famous."
Kate looked at him. She didn't know what to say. "I guess this will be track 13." It was the only thing she could think of.
"I don't want to be a father," Charlie said, his face twisting and crumpling. There was nothing Kate could do. He looked down at his shaking hands and she realized he wasn't even really talking to her. He was just talking. "I don't want to be an addict."
She put her hand out and patted him on the shoulder. His skin was cool. Underneath her hand it said, "Living is easy with eyes closed." And that was right, she thought. That was what they'd all been doing.
Shannon threw the tennis ball toward the ocean, and Vincent brought it back. The dog didn't care that the sky was red. Dogs were color-blind, wasn't that what they said? Although Shannon didn't know how they could know. Didn't they say dreams were in black and white, even though she'd never known anyone who didn't dream in color.
"This dream's in color," she murmured to the dog as she pulled the slimy tennis ball from between its teeth. Vincent nuzzled at her hand. He didn't understand. She could tell he had some sense that something was wrong, like he could read their body language or sense their emotions or maybe even smell it on them. She threw the ball again and as she turned her head, the hilltop caught her eye. Why should she care if the whole world was gone? She'd already lost her world.
Sayid was one of the ones who walked away. He went into the jungle, where the tree canopy blocked out the view of the sky. He remembered the skies when the oil fields burned and how at the time he thought he'd never again see something so terrible. He thought about Nadia, at work in some lab on the other side of the world, or given the time difference, maybe she was sleeping peacefully. She probably never thought about him anyway. Now she never would.
He didn't have to look at the photograph to see her face, but he did. He didn't have to turn it over to know the words she'd written there, but he did. Seeing them should have displaced the red sky in his mind. "See you in the next life," she'd written. She'd promised. She was already there.
Many times before this, he'd thought of her as dead. He'd never been anxious to join her. But now, with absolute certainty in his mind, he could think of no reason not to. Sayid was good at fixing things, but he couldn't fix this. The gun was already warm as he pressed it against his skin.
Jack went into the hatch. The clock on the wall was still counting down. The numbers made a small clicking noise as they turned. His parents had had a clock just like it when he was young. It sat on the shelf above their bed. Sometimes when he was young and feeling afraid or lonely he would go into their bedroom, where he was forbidden to go, and sit and watch the minutes pass on the clock with morbid fascination. Somehow the bed was always warm.
He threw the computer onto the floor and kicked it, driving it around the cement with his foot until it was in pieces and his foot throbbed. It took a lot of energy to knock the clock off the wall, and when he did it made the alarm start beeping. He couldn't figure out how to make it stop, so he just sank to the floor with it ringing in his ears.
This was his fault. These people were his responsibility. He was supposed to keep them safe. More than that, he was supposed to make them feel safe even when they weren't. He was supposed to have words to reassure them and comfort them, but what the fuck was there to say? He'd told enough lies. He didn't want this. Didn't want the responsibility.
His father was dead. His father, who had loved him, was dead. Had been dead all this time. Never even found his body after the crash. Jack didn't let himself think about it, because when he did his head pounded and his body got cold. He'd dreaded facing his mother, telling her. He wasn't sure she loved his father, but he thought it would kill her to lose him. Now she was dead. They were all dead. And somehow, stupidly, through some absurdly ridiculous twists of fate, it was Jack's fault.
"Now the Sox'll never win the series." It sounded so wrong in that accent, that drawl. Yet the words still mocked him, just as they had every time his father had said them.
"Go away," Jack said. Sawyer ignored him, of course. Slid down and sat next to him and sighed. It never occurred to Jack to wonder why. Why, with the world ended and their fates sealed, Sawyer had chosen to follow him. "It's over."
"World ended for me a long time ago," Sawyer said. "You get used to it."
"They all fucking died," Jack said, feeling his anger stir.
"We were never gettin' off this rock anyhow," Sawyer told him. "But that rage you feel, made you kick the shit out of this place, you can use that. It's the only thing you can use, times like these." He was staring at Jack hard, with that crazy look he got in his eyes sometimes, like there was a fire burning inside him and that was its only way out.
He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. And he was warm. Just like Jack's parents' bed used to be when he felt so hopeless and small. Jack leaned against him, and never realized that was exactly why Sawyer had followed him in the first place.
End.
Disclaimer: Lost belongs to ABC, JJ Abrams, etc., not to me. No infringement intended.
Warnings: General spoilers through the first part of season 2. Future fic. More angsty than usual.
Author's notes: Inspired by the fanfic100 prompt "Red" although I don't think this one qualifies toward my claim on Sawyer.
Red Sky
by eponine119
October 29, 2005
The sky turned red. That was how they knew.
They all went a little bit crazy after that.
…
It wasn't anybody's fault. That was what Jack took the hardest of all. If someone had walked away from their post, he would have had someone else to blame, someone to vent his fury upon.
But Hurley put the numbers in just the way he was supposed to. It wasn't his fault that there was a tiny break in the wires threading through the keyboard, so that when he pressed the "execute" button, the command never reached the processor. He pressed it and pressed it and pressed it and stared as the seconds counted down. When they reached zero, he tensed and waited for something to happen. No alarms blared. The counter simply flipped back to 108, just as it would have if the numbers had been input the way they were supposed to be.
After a sigh of relief, he ran out of the hatch to tell them all the good news. He reached the open air with a shout just as the first streaks were appearing in the sky. Hurley froze, with jubilation dying on his lips, his head sinking down guiltily between his shoulders.
No one said anything. No one had to. Perhaps there was a whisper or a nudge at first, but everyone just stopped what they were doing and looked up, slack jawed, damp eyed. Knowing.
The red was indescribable. It might have been more bearable if it had been primary or crayola or the color of blood. But it was the most beautiful shade any of them had ever seen. It was hibiscus; it was a mouth that had just been kissed; it was orange and red and yellow all at the same time, so red and so beautiful it hurt to look. None of them could look away. Waiting for it to end.
It didn't. It didn't get darker or lighter, it just intensified, and still they waited. Waited for a sound, waited for that bright telltale doomsday flash that had threatened them their entire lives, but it never came. Just the redness of the sky.
"We're going to die," Shannon said, breaking the silence with a shaking voice. Saying what none of the rest of them would. She looked at Jack with eyes filled with accusation, and he did the only thing he could. He looked to Hurley.
"They're cursed," Hurley whispered, his skin pale beneath his freckles. "I'm cursed." He raised his head and looked at Jack. "I put them in. I pressed the button. But nothing happened. It went back to 108 and nothing happened and I came up here to tell you that we're free, but…" He broke off, looking at the ground so none of them would see the tears welling in his eyes because he knew, or thought he knew, that this was his fault.
"Red sky at night," Sawyer said, the weary sigh in his voice defeating his ironic tone. "Sailor's delight." But there wouldn't be another raft. No raft, no rescue boat, no plane overhead. No one was coming for them now.
"On the beach," Claire whispered, cuddling her infant son closer to her, as though to shield his eyes from the redness of the sky. "On the beach." It was the title of a book, about Australia, a fiction book about waiting for the radioactive cloud to come and kill you. She'd never read the book. Now she never would.
"We were chosen," Locke murmured, mostly to himself, lifting his face to the sky as though he could feel the colors on his skin. This was their destiny.
After awhile, they had to stop staring. It didn't change, and there were still things to be done. Dinner to be caught and prepared, clothes to wash, the fire to be fed. A few people walked away, to be alone with this new reality. Most of them stayed on the beach, stayed close. Afraid to live with the knowledge that now they were truly alone.
Kate sat on the beach and watched the waves. The way she always did when she wanted Jack to come to her. It was her siren's call and he could so rarely resist. Today she sat and her hair tangled in the wind and she waited to see if the water would turn some shade other than blue, but Jack didn't sit next to her, didn't put his arms around her, didn't whisper that it would be all right and that she was free now, truly free, not hunted or a victim any more.
Charlie sat down. His hands were shaking, black-painted nails wavering. "I wrote 12 songs. An album. I was going to be famous when we got back. Really famous."
Kate looked at him. She didn't know what to say. "I guess this will be track 13." It was the only thing she could think of.
"I don't want to be a father," Charlie said, his face twisting and crumpling. There was nothing Kate could do. He looked down at his shaking hands and she realized he wasn't even really talking to her. He was just talking. "I don't want to be an addict."
She put her hand out and patted him on the shoulder. His skin was cool. Underneath her hand it said, "Living is easy with eyes closed." And that was right, she thought. That was what they'd all been doing.
Shannon threw the tennis ball toward the ocean, and Vincent brought it back. The dog didn't care that the sky was red. Dogs were color-blind, wasn't that what they said? Although Shannon didn't know how they could know. Didn't they say dreams were in black and white, even though she'd never known anyone who didn't dream in color.
"This dream's in color," she murmured to the dog as she pulled the slimy tennis ball from between its teeth. Vincent nuzzled at her hand. He didn't understand. She could tell he had some sense that something was wrong, like he could read their body language or sense their emotions or maybe even smell it on them. She threw the ball again and as she turned her head, the hilltop caught her eye. Why should she care if the whole world was gone? She'd already lost her world.
Sayid was one of the ones who walked away. He went into the jungle, where the tree canopy blocked out the view of the sky. He remembered the skies when the oil fields burned and how at the time he thought he'd never again see something so terrible. He thought about Nadia, at work in some lab on the other side of the world, or given the time difference, maybe she was sleeping peacefully. She probably never thought about him anyway. Now she never would.
He didn't have to look at the photograph to see her face, but he did. He didn't have to turn it over to know the words she'd written there, but he did. Seeing them should have displaced the red sky in his mind. "See you in the next life," she'd written. She'd promised. She was already there.
Many times before this, he'd thought of her as dead. He'd never been anxious to join her. But now, with absolute certainty in his mind, he could think of no reason not to. Sayid was good at fixing things, but he couldn't fix this. The gun was already warm as he pressed it against his skin.
Jack went into the hatch. The clock on the wall was still counting down. The numbers made a small clicking noise as they turned. His parents had had a clock just like it when he was young. It sat on the shelf above their bed. Sometimes when he was young and feeling afraid or lonely he would go into their bedroom, where he was forbidden to go, and sit and watch the minutes pass on the clock with morbid fascination. Somehow the bed was always warm.
He threw the computer onto the floor and kicked it, driving it around the cement with his foot until it was in pieces and his foot throbbed. It took a lot of energy to knock the clock off the wall, and when he did it made the alarm start beeping. He couldn't figure out how to make it stop, so he just sank to the floor with it ringing in his ears.
This was his fault. These people were his responsibility. He was supposed to keep them safe. More than that, he was supposed to make them feel safe even when they weren't. He was supposed to have words to reassure them and comfort them, but what the fuck was there to say? He'd told enough lies. He didn't want this. Didn't want the responsibility.
His father was dead. His father, who had loved him, was dead. Had been dead all this time. Never even found his body after the crash. Jack didn't let himself think about it, because when he did his head pounded and his body got cold. He'd dreaded facing his mother, telling her. He wasn't sure she loved his father, but he thought it would kill her to lose him. Now she was dead. They were all dead. And somehow, stupidly, through some absurdly ridiculous twists of fate, it was Jack's fault.
"Now the Sox'll never win the series." It sounded so wrong in that accent, that drawl. Yet the words still mocked him, just as they had every time his father had said them.
"Go away," Jack said. Sawyer ignored him, of course. Slid down and sat next to him and sighed. It never occurred to Jack to wonder why. Why, with the world ended and their fates sealed, Sawyer had chosen to follow him. "It's over."
"World ended for me a long time ago," Sawyer said. "You get used to it."
"They all fucking died," Jack said, feeling his anger stir.
"We were never gettin' off this rock anyhow," Sawyer told him. "But that rage you feel, made you kick the shit out of this place, you can use that. It's the only thing you can use, times like these." He was staring at Jack hard, with that crazy look he got in his eyes sometimes, like there was a fire burning inside him and that was its only way out.
He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. And he was warm. Just like Jack's parents' bed used to be when he felt so hopeless and small. Jack leaned against him, and never realized that was exactly why Sawyer had followed him in the first place.
End.