[fic] a few old comment fics
May. 7th, 2010 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kricketsthis house is sad because he's not in it; pg13
lost; claire/jack; 604
for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiki_miserychic
Even in the three years away from the island, Jack never truly had a chance to feel the absence of his father.
Now, standing before his little sister in this full and empty jungle, yards between them, he sees it like this gaping hole that it is. This secret kept, a daughter, a sister. Daddy took it, and her, to his grave.
"You're so much like him," she says, a palm on his cheek. Jack doesn't ask her how she could possibly know that.
"And you're not," he tells her. It's true. The touch of Christian Shephard is a mark you bear upon your soul, a darkness that can be seen in your eyes. Claire doesn't carry that burden. Never has. She is herself again, and Jack can see that clearly now.
She turns away, eyes cast down.
"It's a compliment, Claire," he assures her.
She smiles a moment, shyly, looks up. "Come with me," she urges.
He reaches for her outstretched hand.
--
The truth is that survival on the island isn't all that difficult, after the end of everything, after the "magic" is gone.
Claire's the one who calls it that: Magic.
Jack scoffs. He doesn't know what he'd call it. But certainly not that. Still, he rolls the word over in his mind, and it makes him think of the stories Claire might have told her son before tucking him into bed.
If only.
"There's nothing to be done, Jack," Claire tells him, as though she can sense what he is thinking. Truth is, most days she can.
This is different from the murderous and vengeful mother. This is sense talking. This is someone at ease -- someone who's had time to get used to the idea.
"I know," Jack says, even though he himself hasn't gotten used to it. The regret builds up behind his throat, choking him.
He coughs.
How could he have left her there?
--
Jack remembers the first time Claire kisses him.
She's counting scars, cool fingertips over hot skin one night. A ritual she began long ago. She rolls him over, pushing the fraying cotton shirt over his chest and back, taking silent inventory. She moves meticulously over his shoulders, belly, knees, the backs of his calves, even examines his scalp as best she can.
"Forty-three," she proclaims proudly, sliding off of him and to the pallet at his side.
"Is that all?" Jack asks, surprised.
"We can count again tomorrow," she tells him. "I'm tired now."
"And there will be more tomorrow," he promises, as he always does. It is simply the perils of living in the jungle.
"You're sure there are none that I missed?" Claire teases, a hand brushing over the last remaining fabric covering his body.
Jack catches her wrist, laughs, tells her no. He twines his fingers with hers for a moment, and then falls suddenly grave.
Claire catches the look, her blue eyes as clear as the first day they met.
"Maybe one more," he tells her slowly, moves their hands over his chest. "Here."
She kisses him then. Not on the mouth at first, but on the knuckles, and then the spot next to his heart, the one with the invisible scar, and then his lips, full and firm.
It is a decidedly un-sibling-like kiss, and when Claire's tongue brushes against his, Jack thinks he's been so long on this island that he simply can't be bothered to care anymore.
"Me too," she tells him, and Jack's not sure whether she's responding to his words or his thoughts.
Claire kisses him again, an answer.
It's both.
"Me too."
-fin
untitled; r
lost; claire/jack; 346
forgigglemonster
There's a night in front of the television, Jack sitting too close, her hand resting on his jean-covered thigh, his arm behind her back, thumb resting against the side of her breast.
Claire remembers sliding her hand further up his leg, finding hard flesh, remembers Jack arching into her touch, letting her rub him off against his jeans with the credits rolling by on the screen. She remembers the sound in his voice when he comes, faster than she would have imagined, remembers how he won't look at her afterward.
He doesn't stick around the house anymore when she's at home, and her crappy shifts at the bar make it easier for him to avoid her.
Soon enough she stops trying to speak with him at all, tries to forget, to pretend it didn't happen.
(She's only really successful at the first thing.)
--
Jack remembers the night in front of the television too, although a little differently than her. Weeks, he'd woken with the memory of a dream -- finding her in their shared bathroom, shoving her bathrobe over her thighs, fucking her against the sink.
Same dream, every night.
So when Claire reaches over, he's half asleep and already hard for her, though she doesn't know it. And he can't bring himself to stop her before he's shooting his load into his own pants. He remembers uttering a strained "fuck," and pushing her away so he can get up and clean himself off in the bathroom.
He doesn't come back to her, tries not to imagine her sitting there alone. Waiting. Unsatisfied.
Now, Claire has noisy sex at night with strangers she brings home from the bar. She screams their names and bangs on the wall adjacent to his room to make sure he can hear. Jack's aware that she does this because she knows he has an early surgery, that she does it to piss him off at the thought of another man inside her, making her come.
Jack knows he should be very, very angry.
(Truth is, it only turns him on.)
-fin
identity, pg
lost; claire, richard; 199
fordaybreak777
There are some mornings she wakes up and she thinks she's lost her hearing.
And then she moves against her makeshift pallet and can hear the material rustle underneath her, or a bird calls in the jungle, and she knows it's just her imagination.
Not deaf, just alone again.
Just like every day.
--
Claire keeps to a routine. She tries to hold on to those things that make her human, those things that make her not an animal.
"Let's go fishing," she tells herself. Companionship is hard to come by when you've been outcast. She talks to keep from going crazy -- or maybe she talks because she's already going crazy -- she's not sure which.
"Let's do," she hears a voice, not her own, turns and sees a face she's never seen.
"You," she says to the man, reaches for his hand, instantly recognizing a friend.
"I'm Richard," he tells her, takes her hand in his. His flesh is warm beneath her fingers and his smile kind.
"I'm Claire," she tells him.
Richard smiles. "I know who you are," he says, and the words make her feel safe, make her feel found.
I know who you are.
-fin
you and i were made for this; pg
harper's island; cal/chloe; 271
forholycitygirl
There's a sense of calm that comes over her when she realizes she has a choice.
Chloe's never really believed in the afterlife, heaven, all of that, but it's safe to say she's always felt deep down the presence of her own soul.
Undeniable.
--
She had always been different than her friends, a bit of an odd bird. They called her obsessed, laughed at her collection of true crime novels, humored her when she talked about the things most people would rather never think about, changed the subject when it became too much.
Curious.
It was one of the first words Cal ever said to her when they met. He found her curious. And her own curiosity refreshing.
It's true he wasn't really her type. But neither she was his.
Still, he talked to her about life and death, human anatomy, post-mortem rituals and rites, souls, even. He talked about things that no one before him had thought to talk to her about.
Cal and Chloe: quite the pair, her friends would say. And his too.
But they both knew what the others didn't, and it was enough for them.
Together, they were a pair.
--
Truth is, she'd been waiting for that proposal. She had even planned to say yes. Reality is not quite how she had pictured it, but at the same time, strangely fitting. For them, the odd pair.
And later, when John Wakefield raises that blade and looks at her, curious, Chloe feels at ease.
She makes her choice.
Two souls. Together. Bound by nothing.
And as she falls, it is the strongest she's ever felt.
-fin
lost; claire/jack; 604
for
kiki_miserychicEven in the three years away from the island, Jack never truly had a chance to feel the absence of his father.
Now, standing before his little sister in this full and empty jungle, yards between them, he sees it like this gaping hole that it is. This secret kept, a daughter, a sister. Daddy took it, and her, to his grave.
"You're so much like him," she says, a palm on his cheek. Jack doesn't ask her how she could possibly know that.
"And you're not," he tells her. It's true. The touch of Christian Shephard is a mark you bear upon your soul, a darkness that can be seen in your eyes. Claire doesn't carry that burden. Never has. She is herself again, and Jack can see that clearly now.
She turns away, eyes cast down.
"It's a compliment, Claire," he assures her.
She smiles a moment, shyly, looks up. "Come with me," she urges.
He reaches for her outstretched hand.
--
The truth is that survival on the island isn't all that difficult, after the end of everything, after the "magic" is gone.
Claire's the one who calls it that: Magic.
Jack scoffs. He doesn't know what he'd call it. But certainly not that. Still, he rolls the word over in his mind, and it makes him think of the stories Claire might have told her son before tucking him into bed.
If only.
"There's nothing to be done, Jack," Claire tells him, as though she can sense what he is thinking. Truth is, most days she can.
This is different from the murderous and vengeful mother. This is sense talking. This is someone at ease -- someone who's had time to get used to the idea.
"I know," Jack says, even though he himself hasn't gotten used to it. The regret builds up behind his throat, choking him.
He coughs.
How could he have left her there?
--
Jack remembers the first time Claire kisses him.
She's counting scars, cool fingertips over hot skin one night. A ritual she began long ago. She rolls him over, pushing the fraying cotton shirt over his chest and back, taking silent inventory. She moves meticulously over his shoulders, belly, knees, the backs of his calves, even examines his scalp as best she can.
"Forty-three," she proclaims proudly, sliding off of him and to the pallet at his side.
"Is that all?" Jack asks, surprised.
"We can count again tomorrow," she tells him. "I'm tired now."
"And there will be more tomorrow," he promises, as he always does. It is simply the perils of living in the jungle.
"You're sure there are none that I missed?" Claire teases, a hand brushing over the last remaining fabric covering his body.
Jack catches her wrist, laughs, tells her no. He twines his fingers with hers for a moment, and then falls suddenly grave.
Claire catches the look, her blue eyes as clear as the first day they met.
"Maybe one more," he tells her slowly, moves their hands over his chest. "Here."
She kisses him then. Not on the mouth at first, but on the knuckles, and then the spot next to his heart, the one with the invisible scar, and then his lips, full and firm.
It is a decidedly un-sibling-like kiss, and when Claire's tongue brushes against his, Jack thinks he's been so long on this island that he simply can't be bothered to care anymore.
"Me too," she tells him, and Jack's not sure whether she's responding to his words or his thoughts.
Claire kisses him again, an answer.
It's both.
"Me too."
-fin
untitled; r
lost; claire/jack; 346
for
gigglemonsterThere's a night in front of the television, Jack sitting too close, her hand resting on his jean-covered thigh, his arm behind her back, thumb resting against the side of her breast.
Claire remembers sliding her hand further up his leg, finding hard flesh, remembers Jack arching into her touch, letting her rub him off against his jeans with the credits rolling by on the screen. She remembers the sound in his voice when he comes, faster than she would have imagined, remembers how he won't look at her afterward.
He doesn't stick around the house anymore when she's at home, and her crappy shifts at the bar make it easier for him to avoid her.
Soon enough she stops trying to speak with him at all, tries to forget, to pretend it didn't happen.
(She's only really successful at the first thing.)
--
Jack remembers the night in front of the television too, although a little differently than her. Weeks, he'd woken with the memory of a dream -- finding her in their shared bathroom, shoving her bathrobe over her thighs, fucking her against the sink.
Same dream, every night.
So when Claire reaches over, he's half asleep and already hard for her, though she doesn't know it. And he can't bring himself to stop her before he's shooting his load into his own pants. He remembers uttering a strained "fuck," and pushing her away so he can get up and clean himself off in the bathroom.
He doesn't come back to her, tries not to imagine her sitting there alone. Waiting. Unsatisfied.
Now, Claire has noisy sex at night with strangers she brings home from the bar. She screams their names and bangs on the wall adjacent to his room to make sure he can hear. Jack's aware that she does this because she knows he has an early surgery, that she does it to piss him off at the thought of another man inside her, making her come.
Jack knows he should be very, very angry.
(Truth is, it only turns him on.)
-fin
identity, pg
lost; claire, richard; 199
for
daybreak777There are some mornings she wakes up and she thinks she's lost her hearing.
And then she moves against her makeshift pallet and can hear the material rustle underneath her, or a bird calls in the jungle, and she knows it's just her imagination.
Not deaf, just alone again.
Just like every day.
--
Claire keeps to a routine. She tries to hold on to those things that make her human, those things that make her not an animal.
"Let's go fishing," she tells herself. Companionship is hard to come by when you've been outcast. She talks to keep from going crazy -- or maybe she talks because she's already going crazy -- she's not sure which.
"Let's do," she hears a voice, not her own, turns and sees a face she's never seen.
"You," she says to the man, reaches for his hand, instantly recognizing a friend.
"I'm Richard," he tells her, takes her hand in his. His flesh is warm beneath her fingers and his smile kind.
"I'm Claire," she tells him.
Richard smiles. "I know who you are," he says, and the words make her feel safe, make her feel found.
I know who you are.
-fin
you and i were made for this; pg
harper's island; cal/chloe; 271
for
holycitygirlThere's a sense of calm that comes over her when she realizes she has a choice.
Chloe's never really believed in the afterlife, heaven, all of that, but it's safe to say she's always felt deep down the presence of her own soul.
Undeniable.
--
She had always been different than her friends, a bit of an odd bird. They called her obsessed, laughed at her collection of true crime novels, humored her when she talked about the things most people would rather never think about, changed the subject when it became too much.
Curious.
It was one of the first words Cal ever said to her when they met. He found her curious. And her own curiosity refreshing.
It's true he wasn't really her type. But neither she was his.
Still, he talked to her about life and death, human anatomy, post-mortem rituals and rites, souls, even. He talked about things that no one before him had thought to talk to her about.
Cal and Chloe: quite the pair, her friends would say. And his too.
But they both knew what the others didn't, and it was enough for them.
Together, they were a pair.
--
Truth is, she'd been waiting for that proposal. She had even planned to say yes. Reality is not quite how she had pictured it, but at the same time, strangely fitting. For them, the odd pair.
And later, when John Wakefield raises that blade and looks at her, curious, Chloe feels at ease.
She makes her choice.
Two souls. Together. Bound by nothing.
And as she falls, it is the strongest she's ever felt.
-fin