Empty Beds, Emptier Hearts
May. 18th, 2007 09:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kricketsTitle: Empty Beds, Emptier Hearts (Five Ways They Sorta Kinda Never Get Over Jack)
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Claire, Jack, Sawyer
Table: table-5
Prompt: Sick, Mobile, Starve, Jobless, Argument
Word Count: (154, 141, 141, 151, 171) 758 TOTAL
Rating: Hard R
Summary: He ain’t comin’. They haven’t been forgotten. The walls burnt down. One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress. Missing walls still go missing.
Author's Notes: Thank you Katie! ;)
Warnings: Jawyercita, Jawyer, ConMama
Feedback: Pretty please? *grovels* ConCrit Welcome!
Verse: Names & Curses
1.
He ain’t comin’.
Sawyer’s not a stupid fellow. So when Jack tells him to go on without him, it ain’t exactly a surprise. And he didn’t have to tell him to take along the girl neither, ‘cause he saw that coming too.
But then, he finds his hands are shaking, and when he tells her to grab their things, Time to go, girl, he can’t seem to bring himself to tell her the rest.
The routine’s the same; she starts quick, shoves things into bags, and leaves others behind, like she’s been doing it forever. It ain’t until they’re in the truck and down the road that she notices he didn’t grab Jack’s bag and that they’re not going anywhere near the hospital.
Wait— she starts.
He ain’t comin’, he bites out, turns away when she starts to cry, feels the sting of his own tears and the bile rise in his throat. Forget about him.
2.
They haven’t been forgotten.
They always ditch the phones, too risky, but now he’s at the dumpsters, the usual purge, and in his hands he holds the last link. But he can’t let it go – can’t let him go – and he pockets it.
Back at the truck, she’s leaning in the dark against the cool metal of the door, eyes puffy red in the streetlight. He grabs her neck, kisses her hard, and doesn’t tell her, mostly to protect her, hopes and all. It’s his job to take care of her now.
Doc made sure of that.
Some days later, few miles out of Flagstaff, she sleeps and he feels the tingling vibration of the phone against his thigh, soft sounds drowned out by Jimi’s guitar. He doesn’t answer. It ain’t much, but it’s enough to know that they haven’t been forgotten.
Not yet anyway.
3.
The walls burnt down.
They don’t sleep in the same bed, feels too much like cheating without him there. He hears Claire crying from across the room in her sagging double bed, but doesn’t go to her, knows where it would lead.
Days, they float from town to town, like they’re waitin’ for something, something that feels safe, like a home. But, truth is, any home they had is miles away, walls burnt down when he left them alone and they ain’t ever gonna get it back without him there.
Nights go on like that, empty beds, even emptier hearts, ‘til one night she crawls into bed next to him, hands roaming, mouths drunk with each other, tongues and lips and sobs like starving people.
And maybe this is giving up, but for now it feels like home, even if only a half of one.
4.
One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress.
They settle in Encinitas with a little cash to get them started. The sun beats down on concrete, and they’re close enough to the beach that the waves put them to sleep, but it ain’t exactly cheap. Money will run out quick.
They clean up good, pull a few odd cons together, and they never say his name – makes things easier.
One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress, pie peddler at one of those diners, and he can’t even be bothered to take it off her first, just pulls aside her panties, and shoves in with his jeans bunched at his hips, takes her against the back of the front door.
She calls her brother’s name when she comes, and at the sound of it, his hips buck roughly against her one last time before he’s done, spent and sweaty and still not over him.
Not even close.
5.
Missing walls still go missing.
Thing is, they never really get over Jack. They wake, they fuck, they get dressed and eat food and they don’t even think of him for minutes, sometimes hours at a time. But the missing walls still go missing and there’s just no way ‘round it.
It’s been three months at least in Encinitas, and they feel like California, and they haven’t said his name since that day against the wall. But it’s there, a hole in the fabric, an empty spot in the bed, a memory, a scent.
So when he knocks on their door, their door, after midnight one night, haggard and broken, the anger almost, almost, melts away first. But fists connect with chins and fingers wrap around collars and then it’s her, like always, pulling them apart.
You look like shit, she finally gets out after helping them both to the couch and handing him a towel to wipe the blood.
He smiles, ducks his head, and Sawyer punches his shoulder. Jackass.
And it feels like reconstruction.
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Claire, Jack, Sawyer
Table: table-5
Prompt: Sick, Mobile, Starve, Jobless, Argument
Word Count: (154, 141, 141, 151, 171) 758 TOTAL
Rating: Hard R
Summary: He ain’t comin’. They haven’t been forgotten. The walls burnt down. One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress. Missing walls still go missing.
Author's Notes: Thank you Katie! ;)
Warnings: Jawyercita, Jawyer, ConMama
Feedback: Pretty please? *grovels* ConCrit Welcome!
Verse: Names & Curses
He ain’t comin’.
Sawyer’s not a stupid fellow. So when Jack tells him to go on without him, it ain’t exactly a surprise. And he didn’t have to tell him to take along the girl neither, ‘cause he saw that coming too.
But then, he finds his hands are shaking, and when he tells her to grab their things, Time to go, girl, he can’t seem to bring himself to tell her the rest.
The routine’s the same; she starts quick, shoves things into bags, and leaves others behind, like she’s been doing it forever. It ain’t until they’re in the truck and down the road that she notices he didn’t grab Jack’s bag and that they’re not going anywhere near the hospital.
Wait— she starts.
He ain’t comin’, he bites out, turns away when she starts to cry, feels the sting of his own tears and the bile rise in his throat. Forget about him.
They haven’t been forgotten.
They always ditch the phones, too risky, but now he’s at the dumpsters, the usual purge, and in his hands he holds the last link. But he can’t let it go – can’t let him go – and he pockets it.
Back at the truck, she’s leaning in the dark against the cool metal of the door, eyes puffy red in the streetlight. He grabs her neck, kisses her hard, and doesn’t tell her, mostly to protect her, hopes and all. It’s his job to take care of her now.
Doc made sure of that.
Some days later, few miles out of Flagstaff, she sleeps and he feels the tingling vibration of the phone against his thigh, soft sounds drowned out by Jimi’s guitar. He doesn’t answer. It ain’t much, but it’s enough to know that they haven’t been forgotten.
Not yet anyway.
The walls burnt down.
They don’t sleep in the same bed, feels too much like cheating without him there. He hears Claire crying from across the room in her sagging double bed, but doesn’t go to her, knows where it would lead.
Days, they float from town to town, like they’re waitin’ for something, something that feels safe, like a home. But, truth is, any home they had is miles away, walls burnt down when he left them alone and they ain’t ever gonna get it back without him there.
Nights go on like that, empty beds, even emptier hearts, ‘til one night she crawls into bed next to him, hands roaming, mouths drunk with each other, tongues and lips and sobs like starving people.
And maybe this is giving up, but for now it feels like home, even if only a half of one.
One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress.
They settle in Encinitas with a little cash to get them started. The sun beats down on concrete, and they’re close enough to the beach that the waves put them to sleep, but it ain’t exactly cheap. Money will run out quick.
They clean up good, pull a few odd cons together, and they never say his name – makes things easier.
One day she comes home in a fluffy pink dress, pie peddler at one of those diners, and he can’t even be bothered to take it off her first, just pulls aside her panties, and shoves in with his jeans bunched at his hips, takes her against the back of the front door.
She calls her brother’s name when she comes, and at the sound of it, his hips buck roughly against her one last time before he’s done, spent and sweaty and still not over him.
Not even close.
Missing walls still go missing.
Thing is, they never really get over Jack. They wake, they fuck, they get dressed and eat food and they don’t even think of him for minutes, sometimes hours at a time. But the missing walls still go missing and there’s just no way ‘round it.
It’s been three months at least in Encinitas, and they feel like California, and they haven’t said his name since that day against the wall. But it’s there, a hole in the fabric, an empty spot in the bed, a memory, a scent.
So when he knocks on their door, their door, after midnight one night, haggard and broken, the anger almost, almost, melts away first. But fists connect with chins and fingers wrap around collars and then it’s her, like always, pulling them apart.
You look like shit, she finally gets out after helping them both to the couch and handing him a towel to wipe the blood.
He smiles, ducks his head, and Sawyer punches his shoulder. Jackass.
And it feels like reconstruction.
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Date: 2007-05-19 02:15 am (UTC)