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krickets[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