fic: temps à l'envers; lost; jack/claire; r

[krickets]

le temps à l'envers
[time in reverse]
lost, jack/claire, r, 1114 words
written for the impromptu-thon, prompt was record player
I also listened to this song and others similar a lot.

This is time in reverse.

They get off the plane in Los Angeles, and Claire can feel him slipping away already. Like lifting a glass only to find there's no milk, or taking a step when there is none, she reaches for his hand.

[It isn't there.]

--

Jack helps her find a place outside of the city, someplace that's close, but not near enough to be tempting.

The drive to the house is a long brushstroke of silence, too long, and Claire understands all too well what that means.

"You're going to need a washer and dryer," he tells her on the day she moves in, hands her a blank check. "For anything else," he says, like it's not coming from the same pool of hush-money anyway. Airline's got a reputation to protect, a bottom line to watch out for.

She follows him to the door, grabs his hand. He lets her, stills, but doesn't turn around. She presses her weight into his, stands on tiptoe to kiss the back of his neck, her fingers searching for more.

"I have to go, Claire."

She burns the check after he's gone.

--

Sixty days.

Sixty days without a word, and she could almost fool herself into forgetting, moving on.

She subscribes to magazines, tries new recipes, gets a job at a florist shop to keep busy. And then he shows up, tells her to pack some things, says something about an uncle, about always chasing after dead men, kisses her full on the lips. If she is angry, she doesn't say. This is not to spare him. [She's not quite sure he deserves her mercy.] It is because she understands. Truth is, if he hadn't sent her away, she might have just disappeared on her own, slipped away in the night, left no word.

He only got to it first.

Can't exactly blame him for that.

She packs what little she needs in a canvas backpack, no more. She hasn't quite gotten the minimalistic lifestyle of the island out of her system. She thinks it's for the best, losing that all-too-human attachment to things. It's people, now, she wants to hold on to.

People who are always either dying or running away.

--

They're in a dark basement somewhere in rural France going through the life of someone she's never met. [Jack's uncle's life. Her uncle's life.]

Claire hasn't asked about family connections, why Jack never told her Christian had any other family, or why Great Uncle Felix wasn't stateside. She only follows him from room to room as they separate items into piles and lists, things the family will keep, things they'll sell, things they'll throw away.

Keep. Sell. Throw away.

Claire feels like the last.

[There are freshly baked crusty rolls in the mornings and they don't sleep in the same bed at night.]

One early evening, she finds a cache of vintage dresses tucked away in one of the upstairs closets. She tries one on, the perfect fit, and the next day she starts to wear them regularly. They're modest and humble, the soft fabrics falling just below the knee in floral prints and dark colors, blacks, tans, deep reds, and dark blues.

If Jack notices, he doesn't mention it.

"I remember this," Jack says, and Claire is almost startled. She swears it's the first time she's heard his voice in days. [But no, she remembers, he'd asked her if she wanted milk in her tea over breakfast, talked about getting started downstairs.]

She goes to where he is, in a low-lit corner of the basement, standing over an old hand crank record player. Jack slides the record he's holding out of the sleeve, places it on the turntable, and begins to crank. Nothing's dusty, except maybe the music, like old Felix was down here just a few weeks ago, listening to the same record, the same song. Claire smiles, feeling appropriately dressed, like she's just closed her eyes and been transported to some bygone era.

Jack pulls her close. She stands, her bare feet on top of his, as they dance. The man in the song talks of eyes and lips and belonging, of dreams and all the simple things about love that Jack and Claire know nothing about. But in this moment, it doesn't seem to matter. He bends low, his hands at her waist. Claire presses her cheek to his. Jack kisses her shoulder. She closes her eyes.

The song ends.

There's a brief suspension of time, nothing but silence passing between them, body temperature, a quiet intake of breath.

Jack clears his throat, drops his hands to his side, and they resume their places as if the moment never happened.

[And maybe it never did. Maybe it was just a dream.]

--

That night, Jack finds his way into Claire's bed for the first time since France.

She hears the groan of rusty hinges and meets him halfway, his knee already balanced on the edge of the bed, her blankets tossed askew.

His lips on hers are rough and clumsy, his resolve not yet in tune with his body. She pulls at the fabric at his back, drags him down into the soft nest of linens.

"Something's changed?" Claire half-asks as he hikes up her nightgown, his cool fingers finding the edges of her panties, slipping them down.

Jack kisses her again in answer, whispers, "I'm sorry" what seems like a thousand times until she's pressing his boxers over his hips, sliding her heels over his ass.

"Shut up," she tells him, bites at his neck, tasting the salty flesh she finds there. Jack groans, pressing his weight into her, finding the right leverage to gain entry. Claire closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip, the sounds of the song from the record player filling her mind, the feel of Jack moving inside her overwhelming. Jack sweeps the hair from her face. She meets his eye, connects in a kiss. He smooths a hand down her torso and over the rise of her thigh at his side, grips her bent knee, presses it forward.

His lips against hers, she cries out.

--

"We should just stay here," she says in Jack's arms that night. "I like it here."

Jack laughs, kisses her jaw. "Well, you can keep the dresses at least," he tells her. "I like those too."

"And the record player," she says.

"And the record player," he agrees.

It's not an answer, and Claire knows they can't possibly stay in that house, but she knows that this is no dream.

She reaches for him.

This time he reaches back.

The glass is full.

-fin

Comments

[gregoria44.livejournal.com]

Ah, there it is.

Still in love with these, even after all this time.

thank you for indulging us.

:)

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Aw, well thank you so much sweetie. *beams* I'm so happy you like it!

My pleasure!

♥!

[holycitygirl.livejournal.com]

She thinks it's for the best, losing that all-too-human attachment to things. It's people, now, she wants to hold on to. People who are always either dying or running away.

This is achingly lovely, and full of lush imagery I just want to take photos of. Claire in those dresses, Jack kissing her shoulder. Dancing.

Yes, yes, I'm completely in love.

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Hehe, I am kind of in love with that image too. Thank you so much for the awesome prompt! I really wanted to write something for you. It makes me all giddy that you liked it. Yay!

[holycitygirl.livejournal.com]

:) Total mission accomplished.

Like I would even recognize weird at this point? Lol. I would LOVE - ADORE even - writing something in this universe.

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Hee! Yay!

*basks in the weird*

[pumahmistress.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

Simply beautiful.

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Well thank you. ♥ I'm glad you think so.

[angela-weber.livejournal.com]

This is so gorgeous and full of such incredibly poignant and simple images. This really got to me in a way I can't quite describe--it's too beautiful. I love the scenario, the writing, everything. Perfection. *sigh*

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Well thank you for saying so. I'm flattered. Glad it made you feel this way. :) Very much appreciated.

[gigglemonster.livejournal.com]

Woooow! I have to say I think this just might be my favorite fic of yours! At least my favorite Jack/Claire of yours. I'm kind of speechless actually. I love the analogy of the story beginning as the empty glass and ending as the full glass, oh that makes me so happy! Also, the setting for this is so incredibly unique, but still totally believable at the same time. That section about the record player itself and the dancing and feeling like a dream and guh! So beautiful and perfect.
And the characterization as always is so great. This line about Claire in particular stood out for me

She hasn't quite gotten the minimalistic lifestyle of the island out of her system. She thinks it's for the best, losing that all-too-human attachment to things. It's people, now, she wants to hold on to. People who are always either dying or running away.

*sniffle* SO GOOD!
Okay, now I'm just rambling but yeah this is craaaazy awesome lol

[crickets.livejournal.com]

As I said earlier, I was a bit nervous about this before posting. But I think it's just cause it's them and they always make me nervous just cause of that fact, haha.

Your favorite really? Your favorite J/C? Wow, yay!

Thank you so much!

*dances* (the dance of joy, totally different kind of dance.)

[missy-useless.livejournal.com]

"I have to go, Claire."

She burns the check after he's gone.

I am in love with this. Oh wow. The language, the imagery, the characterization, the setting, the dancing, the record player - everything is so perfect and delicate and beautiful. Amazing work.

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Say, thanks. I'm happy you think so. Such nice compliments. *beams*

Thanks for taking the time to read and review!

[slybrunette.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry this review has taken so long. I feel bad, but I just haven't been in the right headspace to say anything other than "awesome" and this is worth more than that. So. Settle.

You and your atmospheric fics. You have this tendency to make the location in some of your fics almost a character in a way. They add something special to the story. France adds something to this, it introduces this place that they get a bit lost in, with the dresses and the record player and it's all just...gorgeous.

I'm not sure when this all takes place. I'm also not sure I care. This is so far removed from canon it doesn't even matter anymore, and you're one of the few people that I actually can deal with that from. You know, I have to canonize everything normally.

Some stuff I love: the burning of the check, the feeling of him slipping away, obviously the dresses (because I'm into vintagey fashion and it kind of adds a magical, dream like quality to this), the dancing, the entire last section.

This is especially beautiful:

Jack pulls her close. She stands, her bare feet on top of his, as they dance. The man in the song talks of eyes and lips and belonging, of dreams and all the simple things about love that Jack and Claire know nothing about. But in this moment, it doesn't seem to matter. He bends low, his hands at her waist. She presses her cheek to his. He kisses her shoulder.

There isn't a word out of place in that sentence. There just isn't a damn thing that isn't perfect with it.

Amazing work, hun!

[crickets.livejournal.com]

I think it's now more difficult for me to erase canon than it used to be, but I'm really at home there when I write cause stuff like this happens. So I'm glad that you can let that go when you read my fics cause so many of them disregard a lot of what happens in canon. It's so much easier for me to say what I want to say when I just let that go.

Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback, I'm really glad you liked this. I was kind of worried you wouldn't for some reason.

Hopefully I'll get to write more in the next two days. At least one more! We shall see.

[mollivanders.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

And in France, so double win :)

[crickets.livejournal.com]

Thanks very much! :)