Fic: Silhouette (‘Til The Good Lord Come) (1/1)
Title: Silhouette (‘Til The Good Lord Come)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Annie/Ben
Word Count: 800
Summary: For the first time in his life, he feels like he knows why he’s here. For weatheredlaw, who requested “Get Inspired By Music” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 5.12 - Dead Is Dead.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title is credit to The Fray.
Author’s Notes: For weatheredlaw: the songs you selected were brilliant, and I set them to play in my iTunes -- ran them through Genius and made the playlist longer while I pecked out bits and pieces of this little angsty ficlet (hence the title being, you know, not from one of the songs you selected ;) ); but yes -- hopefully you’ll enjoy it :)
Silhouette (‘Til The Good Lord Come)
For the first time in his life, he feels like he knows why he’s here.
He loses himself in the way her heart beats harder, yet lighter -- quicker in time as another grows beneath; she glows, basks in the way her belly swells, ruddy cheeks lit from beneath with something soft, something sated, and her laughter, her light is infectious: he doesn’t remember the last time he was happy before this moment here, with her.
What will we name it? Her voice is almost lost in the rustle, the breeze against the leaves, but he’ll never miss it; not ever.
Her, he says, because he’s sure of it. Their baby is a girl.
She smiles into him, rolls her shoulders against the harsh grain of tree bark at their backs and buries her face in his shoulder, lets him cup her close against his chest and kiss the hollow of her throat.
He breathes, his pulse thrumming where he measures hers against his lips -- still heavy and light at the very same time -- and he smiles, just shy of the gentle, sweat-drawn curls that tease the nape of Annie’s neck.
His Annie.
_________________________
It’s in the way she says his name, he thinks; the way she rests her hand palm-down, protective across her stomach when she’s around others, palm-upwards, inviting, when she’s just with him -- it’s in the way they make love that he knows it: knows there’s no greater sense of abandon in the world, the universe; no deeper sense of peace.
He steals his father’s wedding ring, gives it to Annie and promises As soon as we can; her hands are already swelling a bit to match the bump of her stomach, but she wears the band on a chain, the glint of it visible at the collar of her shirt, the outline of something solid between her breasts so very real and there if one knew where to look.
She gets bigger, her clothing looser -- people don’t ask, don’t really mind; it’s not in this place to care, really, and for once, he’s grateful for this Island.
He watches the water from the dock, arm tight around Annie’s shoulders, cheek against her hair -- shivers when she laces her fingers in his and settles his hand on her belly, fights slack-jawed tears when he feels motion, a little stirring, maybe a kick beneath his touch, and he kisses her: desperate, overcome.
For all of the bad things, for all of the hurt this place has brought -- she’s more than worth it.
_________________________
When the baby slides from her with a scream, stillborn, he feels his heart break; when his Annie’s tender, swollen breasts heave their last, the shards calcify, and if he drops to his knees and buries his head against her, atop the heart he knows, can imagine into beating even if it hurts -- no one stops him, no one draws him away. He doesn’t even kiss her goodbye, can’t bear it -- it’s too final, too real.
The baby, though; it was a girl.
And in a blink -- a rush of blankets and sheets and blood and tears; suddenly, everything’s gone, so stark and empty, he hadn’t quite understood just what it had meant in its presence -- her presence -- just how much pull her gravity had upon his soul. There’s nothing left, except for the ache, and the rage: so he rages, curses a God he cannot see and a place he cannot know, and a man who exists -- ephemeral -- as a name and nothing else, petty savior. He curses the shadow as light, dawn as dusk, and where his tears fall is no man’s land: the grass doesn’t dare to grow in the path of his despair.
He doesn’t know whose fault this is, but he knows that one day, they will pay with the same blood, the same life they’d stolen from him, the song of her against his ear when he’d fall asleep against her chest.
For years, she haunts his dreams; it’s no comfort.
But it’s why he keeps the Frenchwoman’s child, takes her and cries with her pressed against him, daughter to a broken man: to fill the empty space in his chest; the gap he can’t ignore, can’t forget, like a bullet hole he can’t remember, red against the leaves.
He never tells anyone where he buries Annie’s body -- never marks the grave; but when he walks past it, he feels the burn; phantom warmth that used to soothe, only sears.
This is his private penance, his own loss to mourn.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Annie/Ben
Word Count: 800
Summary: For the first time in his life, he feels like he knows why he’s here. For weatheredlaw, who requested “Get Inspired By Music” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 5.12 - Dead Is Dead.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title is credit to The Fray.
Author’s Notes: For weatheredlaw: the songs you selected were brilliant, and I set them to play in my iTunes -- ran them through Genius and made the playlist longer while I pecked out bits and pieces of this little angsty ficlet (hence the title being, you know, not from one of the songs you selected ;) ); but yes -- hopefully you’ll enjoy it :)
Silhouette (‘Til The Good Lord Come)
For the first time in his life, he feels like he knows why he’s here.
He loses himself in the way her heart beats harder, yet lighter -- quicker in time as another grows beneath; she glows, basks in the way her belly swells, ruddy cheeks lit from beneath with something soft, something sated, and her laughter, her light is infectious: he doesn’t remember the last time he was happy before this moment here, with her.
What will we name it? Her voice is almost lost in the rustle, the breeze against the leaves, but he’ll never miss it; not ever.
Her, he says, because he’s sure of it. Their baby is a girl.
She smiles into him, rolls her shoulders against the harsh grain of tree bark at their backs and buries her face in his shoulder, lets him cup her close against his chest and kiss the hollow of her throat.
He breathes, his pulse thrumming where he measures hers against his lips -- still heavy and light at the very same time -- and he smiles, just shy of the gentle, sweat-drawn curls that tease the nape of Annie’s neck.
His Annie.
_________________________
It’s in the way she says his name, he thinks; the way she rests her hand palm-down, protective across her stomach when she’s around others, palm-upwards, inviting, when she’s just with him -- it’s in the way they make love that he knows it: knows there’s no greater sense of abandon in the world, the universe; no deeper sense of peace.
He steals his father’s wedding ring, gives it to Annie and promises As soon as we can; her hands are already swelling a bit to match the bump of her stomach, but she wears the band on a chain, the glint of it visible at the collar of her shirt, the outline of something solid between her breasts so very real and there if one knew where to look.
She gets bigger, her clothing looser -- people don’t ask, don’t really mind; it’s not in this place to care, really, and for once, he’s grateful for this Island.
He watches the water from the dock, arm tight around Annie’s shoulders, cheek against her hair -- shivers when she laces her fingers in his and settles his hand on her belly, fights slack-jawed tears when he feels motion, a little stirring, maybe a kick beneath his touch, and he kisses her: desperate, overcome.
For all of the bad things, for all of the hurt this place has brought -- she’s more than worth it.
_________________________
When the baby slides from her with a scream, stillborn, he feels his heart break; when his Annie’s tender, swollen breasts heave their last, the shards calcify, and if he drops to his knees and buries his head against her, atop the heart he knows, can imagine into beating even if it hurts -- no one stops him, no one draws him away. He doesn’t even kiss her goodbye, can’t bear it -- it’s too final, too real.
The baby, though; it was a girl.
And in a blink -- a rush of blankets and sheets and blood and tears; suddenly, everything’s gone, so stark and empty, he hadn’t quite understood just what it had meant in its presence -- her presence -- just how much pull her gravity had upon his soul. There’s nothing left, except for the ache, and the rage: so he rages, curses a God he cannot see and a place he cannot know, and a man who exists -- ephemeral -- as a name and nothing else, petty savior. He curses the shadow as light, dawn as dusk, and where his tears fall is no man’s land: the grass doesn’t dare to grow in the path of his despair.
He doesn’t know whose fault this is, but he knows that one day, they will pay with the same blood, the same life they’d stolen from him, the song of her against his ear when he’d fall asleep against her chest.
For years, she haunts his dreams; it’s no comfort.
But it’s why he keeps the Frenchwoman’s child, takes her and cries with her pressed against him, daughter to a broken man: to fill the empty space in his chest; the gap he can’t ignore, can’t forget, like a bullet hole he can’t remember, red against the leaves.
He never tells anyone where he buries Annie’s body -- never marks the grave; but when he walks past it, he feels the burn; phantom warmth that used to soothe, only sears.
This is his private penance, his own loss to mourn.