Fic: Retracing Steps (1/1)
Title: Retracing Steps
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Jack Shephard, David Shephard, Charlotte Staples Lewis, Daniel Faraday; Charlotte/Jack, Charlotte/Daniel
Word Count: 1,502
Summary: His memory's not what it used to be. For scandaloussteph, who requested “David is REAL” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers Through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For scandaloussteph: this idea struck before we knew who David’s mother was, hence the pairing and a lot of the vagaries. It turned out a little maudlin, despite my best intention; I hope you’ll find some redeeming qualities in it, regardless ;)
Retracing Steps
His memory’s not what it used to be; the images in his mind more like fairy tales, tumbling down a rabbit hole and reflecting, jumbled, in the looking glass of what his life has been, has failed to be. So many things -- important things -- feel more like vague impressions, snippets from a story he’d once heard but barely believed; believes even less now.
He hikes up the hem of his shirt again, traces the smooth line just above the waist of his jeans; watches the shine of the scar gleam hard, obvious in the stream of the afternoon sun.
Seven or eight. He should remember.
He doesn’t.
_____________________________
He remembers meeting her like it was yesterday, like it was the day before that; like it’s ingrained in his bones with the strength of the sun, burned behind his eyes until all he knows, sometimes, is what she looked like, knees crossed beneath her skirt, the milky stretch of her skin the only bright thing, the only light against the glow of fluorescents where they’d filtered through glass.
He’d eyed her for minutes, for minutes upon minutes, sipping low at his brandy until the ice brushed his nose, pondering how her hair caught the teals and blues of the fixtures that lit along the bar; and to think, he’d fought tooth and nail to get out of attending the festivities that night.
He’d never been so happy -- before or since -- that he didn’t have what it took to convince his father that he was of better use in the OR than tugging at his bowtie and pretending that caviar didn’t make him want to vomit.
I’m Jack, he’d murmured, voice husky with desire and the buzz of his third drink; the time for pretenses already drowned.
She’d smiled, and if he’d had the presence of mind to be aware of it, he’d have noticed the way his pulse stuttered, just a little, the way his palms started sweating; the way that sweet grin made the world spin a little bit faster -- made gravity seems it little less heartless.
I’m thirsty, she’d replied with a gleam in her eye that rivaled the shining stars he hadn’t seen in years, had forgotten against the din of the city; but he’d remembered them when her lips curled and her teeth shone and her cheeks rounded in that soft, subtle way of a woman -- he remembered, and he thinks he fell a little bit in love right then and there.
He ordered her another drink -- a fuzzy navel, and he’d laughed at that; not that it was funny, but he was riding the rush of the moment, and he could only imagine what the tang would taste like on her tongue if he’d kissed her right there -- and it’d been an open bar, so it didn’t quite have the weight it should, but the gesture was there.
She didn’t go home with him, but she gave him her number.
_____________________________
He doesn’t remember proposing; doesn’t remember if he did it over dinner, if he got down on one knee -- if they were alone or in a crowded room, if his heart was racing, if he’d stuttered from nerves. He doesn’t remember any of that, but he does remember the day they got married.
It was overcast, up until the actual ceremony; there was grey in the sky, and his eyes were wide open, lost in the clouds. There was rain waiting in the wings, he remembers, but he also remembers knowing -- knowing -- that it wouldn’t fall. He recalls the way the air caught in his lungs, wet and cool; the way he felt lightheaded, even after Marc slipped him a little of Bushmills in his morning coffee to calm his nerves.
He remembers the day they got married. The wedding, though, he just can’t place.
_____________________________
Listening, watching his son play on that stage from the shadows; he doesn’t remember everything, anymore, but he’s not sure he’s ever heard anything more beautiful.
He flicks tears from the corners of his eyes before he leaves the auditorium, waits outside; he thinks it makes it easier to cry when he talks to David, and he hopes his son gets it, hopes he understands. Thinks maybe he does, as he lifts the bike into his truck.
I hope you have what it takes.
He hears it, in his head; has heard it before, but not quite like that.
Not quite.
He drives them home, can’t help smiling, keeps his eyes on the road in the night, but catches the stark contrast of his hands, the shape of his grip against the dark steering wheel.
He doesn’t remember what it feels like to have a band of pale, tender skin on his left ring finger; if it was ever there to begin with, he can’t even imagine it there now.
_____________________________
They eat their pizza, lukewarm and a little bit stiff. David talks between bites, and Jack listens, laughs, sometimes adds a comment or two, an anecdote, but mostly this is an education for him, a time to learn.
His son hates geometry, because it’s nothing like algebra, and he thinks it’s stupid. He loves classical music, obviously, but he’s also been stuck on the latest Beastie Boys album. His mom thinks he needs braces but he really doesn’t want to get them, less because he’s afraid the kids at school will make fun of him, and more because he doesn’t want to get nailed in the mouth with a soccer ball if his teeth are lined with metal. He’s been practicing for the Williams audition for fifteen months now, and there’s a part of him that never wants to hear Chopin again; only, he really doesn’t mean that at all. He hates mushrooms, used to love them, but just... doesn’t, anymore. He took his almost-girlfriend Felicia to see Wicker Park last weekend, and he felt kind of lame because he sort of liked it.
David keeps talking, and Jack keeps over-tipping the college kids who deliver their dinners.
He hasn’t eaten this much pizza since he was a teenager. He hasn’t been this happy since before that, even.
_____________________________
Sometimes it bothers Jack that they named David after her dad. Not that he’d ever wanted to name their child Christian or anything, but still; sometimes it just feels like she has a part of their son that Jack will never be able to touch.
He hates that feeling more than he’s hated anything in his entire life.
_____________________________
David’s mother returns, and it’s the first time they’re both sorry to part ways.
It’s the first time in a long time he’s walked out to greet her when she pulls up to get him.
“Charlotte.” And she radiates heat, sun-kissed from her dig on the other side of the world; farther from him now than she’s ever been.
“Jack.” And Jesus, her smile. She’d given their son that smile.
He catches Dan’s eye through the SUV window, nods to the physicist who’s had more of a hand in raising his kid than Jack has; Char doesn’t know how to play anything more than ‘Chopsticks’ on a piano.
For this first time in years, David smiles back at him as they drive away.
She’d given him her father’s name, her mother’s nose; her coloring, in the pallor and the freckles. His thumbs are shaped like her Aunt Vanessa’s, and he’s got her cousin’s toes, which is the strangest thing, but there it is. In a lot of ways, David takes after his mother.
But Jack had seen himself, seen his own soul reflected in those gaping blue eyes that had been aching for something that was already theirs, that Jack had known deeper than any worldly thing since the moment he’d held that tiny bundle close to his chest and breathed, just breathed in what it meant to be a father, to have impossibly small fingers curl around his thumb with a fierceness, a determination that pounded hard against Jack’s ribs as he fought back tears. Something that had been David’s, unconditionally, through scraped knees and broken wrists and baby teeth and soccer cleats and cutting the edges off of PB&Js. Through everything.
Because he’s not too proud to admit that he might be a terrible father, despite his best efforts. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his son more than life itself. And David’s his son.
His.
There are a lot of things he can’t remember, but he doesn’t ever plan on forgetting that.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Jack Shephard, David Shephard, Charlotte Staples Lewis, Daniel Faraday; Charlotte/Jack, Charlotte/Daniel
Word Count: 1,502
Summary: His memory's not what it used to be. For scandaloussteph, who requested “David is REAL” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers Through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For scandaloussteph: this idea struck before we knew who David’s mother was, hence the pairing and a lot of the vagaries. It turned out a little maudlin, despite my best intention; I hope you’ll find some redeeming qualities in it, regardless ;)
Retracing Steps
His memory’s not what it used to be; the images in his mind more like fairy tales, tumbling down a rabbit hole and reflecting, jumbled, in the looking glass of what his life has been, has failed to be. So many things -- important things -- feel more like vague impressions, snippets from a story he’d once heard but barely believed; believes even less now.
He hikes up the hem of his shirt again, traces the smooth line just above the waist of his jeans; watches the shine of the scar gleam hard, obvious in the stream of the afternoon sun.
Seven or eight. He should remember.
He doesn’t.
_____________________________
He remembers meeting her like it was yesterday, like it was the day before that; like it’s ingrained in his bones with the strength of the sun, burned behind his eyes until all he knows, sometimes, is what she looked like, knees crossed beneath her skirt, the milky stretch of her skin the only bright thing, the only light against the glow of fluorescents where they’d filtered through glass.
He’d eyed her for minutes, for minutes upon minutes, sipping low at his brandy until the ice brushed his nose, pondering how her hair caught the teals and blues of the fixtures that lit along the bar; and to think, he’d fought tooth and nail to get out of attending the festivities that night.
He’d never been so happy -- before or since -- that he didn’t have what it took to convince his father that he was of better use in the OR than tugging at his bowtie and pretending that caviar didn’t make him want to vomit.
I’m Jack, he’d murmured, voice husky with desire and the buzz of his third drink; the time for pretenses already drowned.
She’d smiled, and if he’d had the presence of mind to be aware of it, he’d have noticed the way his pulse stuttered, just a little, the way his palms started sweating; the way that sweet grin made the world spin a little bit faster -- made gravity seems it little less heartless.
I’m thirsty, she’d replied with a gleam in her eye that rivaled the shining stars he hadn’t seen in years, had forgotten against the din of the city; but he’d remembered them when her lips curled and her teeth shone and her cheeks rounded in that soft, subtle way of a woman -- he remembered, and he thinks he fell a little bit in love right then and there.
He ordered her another drink -- a fuzzy navel, and he’d laughed at that; not that it was funny, but he was riding the rush of the moment, and he could only imagine what the tang would taste like on her tongue if he’d kissed her right there -- and it’d been an open bar, so it didn’t quite have the weight it should, but the gesture was there.
She didn’t go home with him, but she gave him her number.
_____________________________
He doesn’t remember proposing; doesn’t remember if he did it over dinner, if he got down on one knee -- if they were alone or in a crowded room, if his heart was racing, if he’d stuttered from nerves. He doesn’t remember any of that, but he does remember the day they got married.
It was overcast, up until the actual ceremony; there was grey in the sky, and his eyes were wide open, lost in the clouds. There was rain waiting in the wings, he remembers, but he also remembers knowing -- knowing -- that it wouldn’t fall. He recalls the way the air caught in his lungs, wet and cool; the way he felt lightheaded, even after Marc slipped him a little of Bushmills in his morning coffee to calm his nerves.
He remembers the day they got married. The wedding, though, he just can’t place.
_____________________________
Listening, watching his son play on that stage from the shadows; he doesn’t remember everything, anymore, but he’s not sure he’s ever heard anything more beautiful.
He flicks tears from the corners of his eyes before he leaves the auditorium, waits outside; he thinks it makes it easier to cry when he talks to David, and he hopes his son gets it, hopes he understands. Thinks maybe he does, as he lifts the bike into his truck.
I hope you have what it takes.
He hears it, in his head; has heard it before, but not quite like that.
Not quite.
He drives them home, can’t help smiling, keeps his eyes on the road in the night, but catches the stark contrast of his hands, the shape of his grip against the dark steering wheel.
He doesn’t remember what it feels like to have a band of pale, tender skin on his left ring finger; if it was ever there to begin with, he can’t even imagine it there now.
_____________________________
They eat their pizza, lukewarm and a little bit stiff. David talks between bites, and Jack listens, laughs, sometimes adds a comment or two, an anecdote, but mostly this is an education for him, a time to learn.
His son hates geometry, because it’s nothing like algebra, and he thinks it’s stupid. He loves classical music, obviously, but he’s also been stuck on the latest Beastie Boys album. His mom thinks he needs braces but he really doesn’t want to get them, less because he’s afraid the kids at school will make fun of him, and more because he doesn’t want to get nailed in the mouth with a soccer ball if his teeth are lined with metal. He’s been practicing for the Williams audition for fifteen months now, and there’s a part of him that never wants to hear Chopin again; only, he really doesn’t mean that at all. He hates mushrooms, used to love them, but just... doesn’t, anymore. He took his almost-girlfriend Felicia to see Wicker Park last weekend, and he felt kind of lame because he sort of liked it.
David keeps talking, and Jack keeps over-tipping the college kids who deliver their dinners.
He hasn’t eaten this much pizza since he was a teenager. He hasn’t been this happy since before that, even.
_____________________________
Sometimes it bothers Jack that they named David after her dad. Not that he’d ever wanted to name their child Christian or anything, but still; sometimes it just feels like she has a part of their son that Jack will never be able to touch.
He hates that feeling more than he’s hated anything in his entire life.
_____________________________
David’s mother returns, and it’s the first time they’re both sorry to part ways.
It’s the first time in a long time he’s walked out to greet her when she pulls up to get him.
“Charlotte.” And she radiates heat, sun-kissed from her dig on the other side of the world; farther from him now than she’s ever been.
“Jack.” And Jesus, her smile. She’d given their son that smile.
He catches Dan’s eye through the SUV window, nods to the physicist who’s had more of a hand in raising his kid than Jack has; Char doesn’t know how to play anything more than ‘Chopsticks’ on a piano.
For this first time in years, David smiles back at him as they drive away.
She’d given him her father’s name, her mother’s nose; her coloring, in the pallor and the freckles. His thumbs are shaped like her Aunt Vanessa’s, and he’s got her cousin’s toes, which is the strangest thing, but there it is. In a lot of ways, David takes after his mother.
But Jack had seen himself, seen his own soul reflected in those gaping blue eyes that had been aching for something that was already theirs, that Jack had known deeper than any worldly thing since the moment he’d held that tiny bundle close to his chest and breathed, just breathed in what it meant to be a father, to have impossibly small fingers curl around his thumb with a fierceness, a determination that pounded hard against Jack’s ribs as he fought back tears. Something that had been David’s, unconditionally, through scraped knees and broken wrists and baby teeth and soccer cleats and cutting the edges off of PB&Js. Through everything.
Because he’s not too proud to admit that he might be a terrible father, despite his best efforts. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his son more than life itself. And David’s his son.
His.
There are a lot of things he can’t remember, but he doesn’t ever plan on forgetting that.