LOST - A World of Poems and Paintings
Title: A World of Poems and Paintings
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: LOST
Pairing: Jack/Juliet (S/K and J/K references)
Summary: He wants to say you're not on your own now. You're not on your own. But he doesn't, because he doesn't think he could stand it if she said she still was. Even now. With him.
Word Count: 800-summat.
Warning(s): AU. (Post-Season 4 Finale; Jack and Juliet are left behind, alone; there are no flashes.)
Author's Note: For 30_wounds, Kiss it better. Nominated at lost_fic_awards for Best Het Fic, Augtember 2009.
Sometimes when he touches her, or, more often, nearly touches her, he imagines he can still feel a layer of glass glistening between them, just barely smudged by her fingerprints, a hard cool surface that makes him think of rain and the hospital, all misted up by his hot breath. He imagines that if he presses too hard it will shatter and the shards will dig into his palms and the blood, his blood, will mar her beautiful perfect skin, long bright trails running down her face, and her arms, half-reproachful, will wrap around his neck as he falls headfirst into the thick overwhelming waves that lap just at their feet, always just at their feet. He doesn't know whether it's paranoia, or premonition, or just another nebulous invention of his messy, overstrained mind. Maybe it doesn't matter. The illusion makes his pulse race and his lungs fill with bursts of electricity-laden air, small thunderstorms in his chest. He likes feeling that he is standing on the edge of something.
It rains, and rains, and rains, for days and days, and he feels hot and cold at the same time. He doesn't sleep much, or if he does he doesn't notice it; sweat and moisture cling to them at all times, like a second skin, even within the dark dank walls of the caves, and her hair becomes dark in the constant wetness, stray strands plastered to her forehead, one long curl bending down her face and straight against the curve of her cheekbone. Sometimes her hair catches in her mouth when she runs too fast or turns her head too sharply; she flicks it away impatiently and he looks away just before she catches him watching. He can't decide whether he wants to be caught or not.
It's been two weeks, five days, and half an hour to sundown. Two weeks and they still haven't found Claire. Two weeks and he still can't build a fire because the smell of smoke makes him want to gag, sparks and bittersweet memories dancing behind his eyes. Two weeks, and when he talks his voice sounds hollow, like his father's, and in his dreams Ethan is his father and he is Ethan, and he is killing Claire with every step he takes to find her.
Juliet watches him with worry in her eyes; the worry makes up his mind for him, and before he knows it, he isn't kissing her and she isn't kissing him, not exactly. They meet halfway and when she opens her mouth a little he tastes saltwater. It makes him gasp and lean in deeper, and her fingers go to rest delicately splayed across his elbow, balancing. He reaches for her waist and rehearses awkward apologies in his head, but she doesn't pull away; she even shifts infinitesimally closer. It sends a rush of blood to his head, bold and crazy and heartening: he isn't used to this. Maybe the third time's the charm.
If he were someone else he would stop to breathe now and tilt her head back in his hands and tell her what exactly she tastes of, and he would smile at the mischievous gleam in her eye. If he were someone else he could be bloodstained and tied to a tree and she would still want to kiss him. But he is too tired and too angry to change, and she is too warm to break beneath his fingertips, too there to run away, and he knows that if he were to stop now his face would work and tremble and flirty would become just plain sad, anyway.
She smiles at him between kisses, almost trustingly, her pale blue eyes rimmed with tears, shining straight into him, and it makes her look more beautiful even than she is, like a painting, a watercolor stuck behind rippled glass. He didn't save her. He didn't manage it. (He didn't kill her, either. Is that a victory?)
She wraps her arms around his neck, and he feels it, feels the pressure of her soft skin too strongly. He wants to say you're not on your own now. You're not on your own. But he doesn't, because he doesn't think he could stand it if she said she still was. Even now. With him.
Sometime between when they started kissing and when they stop the rainstorm ends with one last glorious crackling crash, and dry lightning lights up the blurred sky in aftershock, teetering between the treetops. He is dizzy, and he can't blame it on the weather; this time he is the one to smile. His breathing slows only when hers does.
She wraps her arms around his waist after, warm and shaken on the mossy jungle floor, her head cushioned by his hand, his long fingers twisted carefully in her hair, tangled and dripping dry against his palm. He feels himself slipping towards sleep, but the lightning explodes in gentle supernovas above them and he stays awake for fear of another storm. He is exhausted, and the pressure of another body against his feels indescribably good after months of loneliness; she shifts and presses one palm to his stomach, just barely grazing over the all-but-healed scar, the tiny ridge of stitches.
He closes his eyes. It doesn't hurt.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: LOST
Pairing: Jack/Juliet (S/K and J/K references)
Summary: He wants to say you're not on your own now. You're not on your own. But he doesn't, because he doesn't think he could stand it if she said she still was. Even now. With him.
Word Count: 800-summat.
Warning(s): AU. (Post-Season 4 Finale; Jack and Juliet are left behind, alone; there are no flashes.)
Author's Note: For 30_wounds, Kiss it better. Nominated at lost_fic_awards for Best Het Fic, Augtember 2009.
Sometimes when he touches her, or, more often, nearly touches her, he imagines he can still feel a layer of glass glistening between them, just barely smudged by her fingerprints, a hard cool surface that makes him think of rain and the hospital, all misted up by his hot breath. He imagines that if he presses too hard it will shatter and the shards will dig into his palms and the blood, his blood, will mar her beautiful perfect skin, long bright trails running down her face, and her arms, half-reproachful, will wrap around his neck as he falls headfirst into the thick overwhelming waves that lap just at their feet, always just at their feet. He doesn't know whether it's paranoia, or premonition, or just another nebulous invention of his messy, overstrained mind. Maybe it doesn't matter. The illusion makes his pulse race and his lungs fill with bursts of electricity-laden air, small thunderstorms in his chest. He likes feeling that he is standing on the edge of something.
It rains, and rains, and rains, for days and days, and he feels hot and cold at the same time. He doesn't sleep much, or if he does he doesn't notice it; sweat and moisture cling to them at all times, like a second skin, even within the dark dank walls of the caves, and her hair becomes dark in the constant wetness, stray strands plastered to her forehead, one long curl bending down her face and straight against the curve of her cheekbone. Sometimes her hair catches in her mouth when she runs too fast or turns her head too sharply; she flicks it away impatiently and he looks away just before she catches him watching. He can't decide whether he wants to be caught or not.
It's been two weeks, five days, and half an hour to sundown. Two weeks and they still haven't found Claire. Two weeks and he still can't build a fire because the smell of smoke makes him want to gag, sparks and bittersweet memories dancing behind his eyes. Two weeks, and when he talks his voice sounds hollow, like his father's, and in his dreams Ethan is his father and he is Ethan, and he is killing Claire with every step he takes to find her.
Juliet watches him with worry in her eyes; the worry makes up his mind for him, and before he knows it, he isn't kissing her and she isn't kissing him, not exactly. They meet halfway and when she opens her mouth a little he tastes saltwater. It makes him gasp and lean in deeper, and her fingers go to rest delicately splayed across his elbow, balancing. He reaches for her waist and rehearses awkward apologies in his head, but she doesn't pull away; she even shifts infinitesimally closer. It sends a rush of blood to his head, bold and crazy and heartening: he isn't used to this. Maybe the third time's the charm.
If he were someone else he would stop to breathe now and tilt her head back in his hands and tell her what exactly she tastes of, and he would smile at the mischievous gleam in her eye. If he were someone else he could be bloodstained and tied to a tree and she would still want to kiss him. But he is too tired and too angry to change, and she is too warm to break beneath his fingertips, too there to run away, and he knows that if he were to stop now his face would work and tremble and flirty would become just plain sad, anyway.
She smiles at him between kisses, almost trustingly, her pale blue eyes rimmed with tears, shining straight into him, and it makes her look more beautiful even than she is, like a painting, a watercolor stuck behind rippled glass. He didn't save her. He didn't manage it. (He didn't kill her, either. Is that a victory?)
She wraps her arms around his neck, and he feels it, feels the pressure of her soft skin too strongly. He wants to say you're not on your own now. You're not on your own. But he doesn't, because he doesn't think he could stand it if she said she still was. Even now. With him.
Sometime between when they started kissing and when they stop the rainstorm ends with one last glorious crackling crash, and dry lightning lights up the blurred sky in aftershock, teetering between the treetops. He is dizzy, and he can't blame it on the weather; this time he is the one to smile. His breathing slows only when hers does.
She wraps her arms around his waist after, warm and shaken on the mossy jungle floor, her head cushioned by his hand, his long fingers twisted carefully in her hair, tangled and dripping dry against his palm. He feels himself slipping towards sleep, but the lightning explodes in gentle supernovas above them and he stays awake for fear of another storm. He is exhausted, and the pressure of another body against his feels indescribably good after months of loneliness; she shifts and presses one palm to his stomach, just barely grazing over the all-but-healed scar, the tiny ridge of stitches.
He closes his eyes. It doesn't hurt.