at night my mind would come alive...

(lost) freedom

2008-11-21T20:56:49Z

Title: Freedom
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sayid, Hurley
Spoilers: Through Season 4 Finale
Prompt: I began writing this for lostfichallenge #73: freedom, but it was never posted.
Summary: Sayid steals Hurley away from the institution.

The unmarked car pulled out of the gated entrance, gravel churning against the tires like a growling beast. Sayid glanced over his shoulder at Hurley, who sat in silence in the back seat, mechanically running the belt from his robe between his fingers as he stared vacantly out of the window.

Sayid turned his eyes back to the road. His heart sank in his chest at the condition of his friend, and his conscience nagged at him for his lack of contact until now. The waiting had been necessary. Ben had been adamant that the Oceanic Six fade from the ever shifting public eye before initiating his plan. But that did not excuse the fact that Sayid’s sparse visits had dwindled to nonsexist after his broken heart had been feebly mended by revenge. He allowed his thoughts to disappear into a vat of regret, but only for a moment. Then his mind was filled with the image of the man whose life he had just taken, and the memory of the sound of the bullet slapping into flesh snapped him out of his thoughts.

Focus, he told himself. Remember the plan.

He glanced out of the tinted window to his right and checked the horizon. It was still hours before daylight. Excellent. He brought his eyes back to the road. In four hours, they would reach the safe house and could hide out until morning and await the others. He looked at the bag in the passenger’s seat and reached over to rummage sightlessly through its contents. His fingers brushed past the smooth, leather exteriors of two false passports and he retracted his hand, satisfied. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he enjoyed a moment of relief, even if the strain would never dissipate entirely.

He directed his focus on the road ahead of him, the seemingly endless dashed lines lulling him into an uneasy stupor. He had driven over 500 miles in the last six hours on virtually no sleep. He had learned to thrive on very little sleep—what choice did he have?—but the miles and miles of endless stretches of road were beginning to take their toll.

An unexpected noise brought him back to his senses, and he quickly turned his head to look behind him. He was surprised to see that Hurley had rolled down his window, and even in the darkness of the car, Sayid could see that Hurley’s face had softened, his eyes twinkling reflections of the stars outside.

A familiar pang returned to his chest, the one that Sayid knew he could never push away completely, a hunger pain for something that had always remained just beyond his reach. There would always be something pulling him back by the scruff of the neck, holding him prisoner, keeping him from the one thing that he had never truly had, the very thing that he had just seen radiating from Hurley’s face.

Freedom.

Sayid rolled down his window so that the night air washed over his face like a baptism. He felt no different, but for the time being, he would feed off the emotions of his friend. He glanced at Hurley through the rearview mirror and his heart stopped beating in his chest. He blinked and looked again, but the blonde-haired woman with bittersweet eyes that had been sitting beside Hurley, staring straight at Sayid in the mirror, was gone. Hurley met his gaze and smiled.

- June 1, 2008

(lost) Solitaire Way

2008-05-30T20:55:20Z

Title: Solitaire Way
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Juliet
Spoilers: Through Season 4 Finale
Prompt: un_love_you - "I'm awake and you're breathing."
Summary: The world was all before them, in the form of a small, abandoned island. A paradise lost. And they themselves lost in the middle.

The World was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence Their guide:
They hand in hand with wadding steps and slow,
Through Eden took Their solitaire way.
John Milton, Paradise Lost

-

He always awoke before she did, troubled into consciousness by dreams he could never remember. His eyes would open and he would suddenly be aware of the weight of a body laying across his arm or the feel of hair tickling against the bare skin on his neck.

He would look down at her for a moment, her face peaceful in sleep, her lips upturned into the faintest of smiles. He could close his eyes again after seeing her there, and it comforted him to know that she too felt safe beside him. He would drift off to sleep for a moment, and when he awoke, she was always gone.

Most mornings she would be sitting on the remains of a fallen tree, her eyes cast out into the jungle beyond, seeing but not seeing. But sometimes she would vanish, disappearing for the entire day. He never asked her where she went.

He had followed her once, in the early days following the purge. He stood unnoticed in the tree line as she sat before a small mound of earth on a windy hilltop, and felt a pang in his chest. He longed for a grave to kneel beside, a place to grieve over all that had been lost. It was not until later that he realized the entire island was a tomb. Every inch of ground was a grim reminder of what had been. Every tree a headstone for those who had perished. Every shadow the memory of the ones who had vanished.

He never felt the need to track her again.

He would spend his days slinking past the dilapidated ruins of the barracks, ignoring the ghosts and whispers that still lingered. Some days he would spend in the remnants of the camp, leaning against a familiar tree and staring out at the new horizon that all too soon had became as familiar as the old one.

As soon as dusk approached, bringing with it a shadowy darkness ideal for hiding fake emotions, they would find one another, brought together like the opposite ends of a magnet. She would smile at him, and he would produce a box of chocolate cream cookies or a bottle of liquor from the stash of items he had salvaged in the aftermath, and the two would toast to their misery. To their dead friends. To being alive.

Then he would take her face in his hands and brush the tears from her eyes with this thumbs, and their bodies would fall into one another. And it felt safe. And they could hide. And they could forget.

They were like Adam and Eve, two lost souls in the prison of paradise. For he knew what lay beyond the great mountains, the lush jungles, and wide ocean. And he had tasted freedom. He could still feel the wind against his face. Feel his stomach rise in his throat as the helicopter rose into the air. Feel his heart swell when he knew what he had to do. It had surprised him to learn that he had one, a heart. It had been beating in his chest all along, waiting to be put to use, to be ignored no longer.

His heart. It was long gone now. Dead and buried in the smoldering wreckage of their last hope.

And so they did the only thing they knew how to do: they survived. And they clung to one another and cursed their final act of selflessness. And they waited. Waited for the missing to return. Waited to be found. Waited for death.

(lost) Summer Camp

2008-05-07T21:25:22Z

Title: Summer Camp
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Hurley, Locke, Claire
Spoilers: Through Eggtown
Prompt: lostsquee - "Only from disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything."; un_love_you - "This cancels out the hurt."
Summary: Sawyer and Hurley are roomies; set immediately following the events of Eggtown.

“Dude, is that a handprint on your face?”

Sawyer pushed away the thoughts he had been so deeply absorbed in and discovered himself to be standing in the doorway of his appropriated bedroom in naught but his boxers. And the swollen welt of a woman-sized handprint stinging on his cheek. A departing gift from the devil of a woman with a hell of back hand.

He looked over at Hurley who was happily sitting on the couch with a smug grin spread wide across his face. He was obviously enjoying himself which left Sawyer livid.

“Put a lid on it.”

It also apparently undermined his ability to formulate a decent comeback. He let out a guttural sigh, grabbed his bag and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned up against the inside wall and closed his eyes.

If he tried really hard, he could imagine he was back in the States. A Five Star Hotel on some gullible broad’s dime. Or hell, even in a shithole in Bumfuck, Iowa. Anywhere was better than here. It had been easy to lie to Kate. To convince her that they could stay on the island. He never had any intention of actually following through with it; he had only wanted to know if she would stay in one place long enough for him to love her properly. He raised his hand up to his still-aching check. Well, now he had his answer.

Sawyer opened his eyes and took in the scene before him—dirty towels littered the floor and the faucet on the sink was dripping.

“There ain’t no maid service here, Tommy Boy,” he shouted at Hurley through the door, “And I sure as hell ain’t your mother.”

There was a muffled sound from the other side of the door that sounded like laughter, and irritated further, Sawyer kicked the towels into a corner and tightened the faucet. Turning on the water in the shower, he allowed the room to be filled with steam and stood before the mirror as it fogged up. He ran his hand over his face and grimaced. He was sick of looking like a damned homeless person, even if he felt like one. He opened the cabinet behind the mirror, searching, but all he found was a pink plastic razor and some green shaving cream with aloe in it. He scowled, and as he squirted the foamy substance into his hand and began applying it onto his face, he pondered his poor luck at having picked this feminine house out of all the others he could have chosen.

After an abysmal shave, he stepped under the scalding water of the shower and let it burn his skin. He washed himself with the floral soap and shampoo that had been left behind by the house’s previous occupant and muttered to himself about smelling like a damn meadow before climbing out the shower and folding the last clean towel around his waist.

He wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at his reflection, frowning at the five o’clock shadow left behind by the plastic razor and his hair, which clung to his face like static cling. As he pulled it back into a ponytail, he thought of how he should have asked Kate to cut it before he had insulted her and sent her back to Jack. Where she belonged. At least that is what he would tell himself.

He dressed quickly and was fully prepared to sink into a chair and finish the dog-eared copy of The Invention of Morel he had found, but to his dismay, during his time in the shower, Hurley had seized his seat of choice and had moved it closer to the television. His tongue sticking out from between his lips in concentration, Hurley was sprawled across the chair, clutching an ancient-looking black joystick. As Sawyer entered, Hurley looked up from the TV and immediately burst out laughing. “What did you do in there? You look like Steven Seagal.”

Sawyer scoffed as he walked over to the space where the chair had been and picked up his book off the end table. “Yeah, well, ain’t you seen a mirror lately? You’re startin’ to look like Teen Wolf.”

Hurley stopped laughing and ran his hand over the ever-growing mutton chops on the side of his face but continued to smile. He watched as Sawyer sat down in a huff on the couch, kicked his bare feet up onto the coffee table, and opened his book. Hurley tossed the controller in his hands onto the floor and fished a bag out of the cushions of his chair and held it out to Sawyer.

“Cheeto?”

He looked up from his book with a scowl on his face. “What?”

Hurley looked down at the bag. “Dharma-brand cheese puff?”

“I may have grown up in a trailer, but that don’t make me trailer trash. I ain’t walkin’ ‘round with orange gunk stained to my fingers and stuck in my teeth.”

“Dude, we’ve been living off fruit, fish, and food fit for a bomb shelter for two months. Live a little.”

Sawyer glared at Hurley, but reached his hand into the bag, grabbed a puff and threw it into his mouth. His features softened as he chewed.

Hurley looked at him with raised brows and nodded. “Eh?”

“Disgusting,” he replied, but flashed a dimple and reached into the bag for a handful. He set down his book as he chewed and looked over at the TV. “Atari? Really?”

Hurley nodded eagerly and then scowled. “I used to be a lot better at Pong.”

“What is this, 1977?” Sawyer looked down at his fingers which were completely covered in orange residue.

“Where have you been? This whole place is like a time warp or something. The hippie bus, the dinosaur of a computer in the hatch, ping pong, Xanadu. I feel, like, out of place because I’m not dressed in a leisure suit and a gold chain.”

“Thank God for that,” Sawyer muttered under his breath and frowning, wiped his hand on his pants.

“You wanna play?” Hurley asked, picking up the joystick and offering it to him. Sawyer eyed it suspiciously and shook his head. Hurley sighed and tossed it back onto the floor. “I’m not sure what’s worse—the beach, all Robinson Crusoe-like; or here—insane, deranged summer camp that you can never leave.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer snorted, “with the camp counselor from Hell.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Locke entered, looking as content as Sawyer had ever seen him. It gave him the creeps.

“Speak of the devil,” Sawyer muttered and Hurley snickered.

“James. Hugo.” Locke nodded in each of their directions.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Sawyer asked, his voice ripe with sarcasm.

“I am here to invite you both to the picnic that is being held just outside.”

Hurley and Sawyer eyed each other with looks of incredulity on their faces.

“Claire is feeling unwell today, and Jerome—”

“Who?” Sawyer interjected.

“Jerome,” Locke repeated forcefully, “suggested a picnic to get her mind off things.”

Sawyer began to speak, but Hurley cut him off. “We’ll be there.”

Locke nodded, smiled awkwardly, and disappeared out the door, closing it behind him.

“What are you? My social director?” Sawyer scowled at Hurley.

“You got something better to do?” Hurley asked, but when Sawyer opened his mouth to say something, he added, “Rhetorical question.”

Sawyer sighed angrily and settled back into the couch with his book. A few moments of silence passed while Sawyer focused on his book and Hurley stared at Sawyer, studying his face.

“So…” he finally spoke, much to Sawyer’s annoyance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sawyer looked over the top of his book at Hurley who was still staring at him with an indiscernible look on his face.

“What could I possibly have to talk about with you?”

Hurley rolled his eyes. “I have ears, Sawyer. We all have ears. And, um, believe it or not, noises carry on that beach. And through walls.”

Sawyer stared at him blankly.

“You and Kate, man!” he exclaimed, wagging his eyebrows.

Sawyer threw the book down on the couch and rose to his feet. “Okay. You win.”

Hurley grinned triumphantly as Sawyer moved toward the door and held it open. “Not another word about Kate,” he warned as Hurley walked past him and out into the court yard.

“Scout’s honor,” Hurley replied, holding up three fingers. “So what do you suppose is for lunch?”

Sawyer inadvertently brushed his hand past the spot on his cheek where he could still feel traces of Kate. His hand dropped to his side and he shook his head. “I dunno. I’m sure Locke clubbed a baby seal or something just for the occasion.”

Hurley chuckled and as they neared the picnic tables, Sawyer felt the tension leave his shoulders as if weight was being lifted with every step he took away from the house. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and after having reciprocated hellos and welcoming nods, he unleashed his grin and took a seat at Claire’s table.

Hurley sat down beside him and took in the feast and everyone who had gathered to enjoy it. Sawyer clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, you still got the hot dog eating contest in the bag.”

Hurley frowned and gave him a small shove, but Sawyer lost his balance and toppled over into the grass, landing with a cry of “Son of a bitch!” As he pulled himself up and brushed the grass from his clothes, he could hear the sound of Hurley’s wheezing laughter coupled with Claire’s. Sawyer returned to his place on the bench with exaggerated movements. His face contorted into a scowl, but the sound of Claire’s laughter and the sight of a smile on her face stripped away the anger from his face and replaced it with a smile of his own.

“I am going to regret that later, aren’t I?” Hurley asked, wiping his eyes.

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

(lost) Fin

2008-04-09T22:05:30Z

Title: Fin
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Danielle Rousseau
Spoilers: Through Season 4
Prompt: lostsquee - Photo and Character Prompt
Summary: Danielle loved the city. The way it breathed and moved like a living thing. Its rich diversities ever as abundant as the jungles in which she had spent most of her life and which had brought her to this suburban one.

Danielle loved the city. The way it breathed and moved like a living thing. Its rich diversities ever as abundant as the jungles in which she had spent most of her life and which had brought her to this suburban one. No where was this more evident than in the train station where she sat waiting. Tourists with their bulky cameras and hip packs mingled with rebellious youths in awkward fashions. The prosperous mingled with the destitute.

On the other side of the platform, she could see a vagabond sprawled across a bench seat, his eyes wild with hunger, loneliness, and abandonment. Nearby, a businessman glanced nervously over his newspaper pages at the grimy man beside him who had begun muttering to demons and loved ones only he could see. Visions from his past maybe, haunting his mind like a vengeful ghost, claiming his sanity in exchange for past sins.

She shifted her eyes toward the opposite side of the platform where a young mother stood holding the hand of her small daughter. The little girl chattered like a bird in a cage while her mother glanced up and down the track impatiently and then over her shoulder as if she expected someone to emerge from the crowd and snatch the girl from her tightly grasping hand. A train appeared around the bend and as it slowed to a halt, she watched through its windows as the mother ushered her daughter into the car, still desperately clutching her hand, even as the doors closed and the train sped away.

She closed her eyes for a moment and said a quick prayer for the mother and her child. As she whispered her Amen, she felt a twitch within her stomach. She raised her hand to her swollen belly and smiled. “Bonjour, bébé,” she whispered, feeling rather foolish. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned her head and smiled. “Robert.”

“Sorry I’m late, my dear,” he apologized eyeing the large suitcase and travel bag at her feet. His Yorkshire accent seemed discordant amid the musical French that was spoken around her, but to her, it was the most pleasing sound in the world. What love would do.

“You should have let me come pack for you,” she replied, twisting around in her seat so that she could see how much luggage he carried. Two bulky bags were slung over his vast shoulders, a third he held in his hand, and a large suitcase sat on the ground next to him.

She looked up at him, amused. “You do realize that it is a research vessel and not a cruise ship, yes?”

A smile crept out from behind his neatly trimmed beard. “Actually,” he said as he presented her with the bag he held in his left hand, “this one is for you.”

“For me?” She beamed as she took the bag and placed it on the seat beside her. He nodded confidently, crouching down so that he was at eye level, and reached out to lay his hand on her stomach as if it was the head of a much beloved dog.

Her heart warmed at his touch as she pulled out an antique wooden box from within the bag. Its surface was covered with detailed carvings, fixed into the wood by skilled hands. She traced her fingertips over the intricate design and looked up at him. “Oh, Robert, it’s beautiful,” she replied. “But you really should not have.”

“Well, you won’t let me put a ring on your finger…” She threw him a quick look which he reciprocated with playful exaggeration. “Open it.”

As she gently lifted the ornate lid, two tiny, dancing figures rose and began twirling to a gentle melody, one which Danielle immediately recognized. It was the “Intermezzo” from Georges Bizet’s opera Carmen, and it immediately brought forth memories of her mother humming the melody as she combed her hair as a child or rubbed her back while she lay at sleep’s doorstep.

Tears threatened to form in the corners of her eyes as Danielle looked up at Robert. “This song… How did you know?”

He smiled sweetly and cupped his hand to her cheek. “I remember everything you’ve ever told me, love.”

She leaned into his hand and brought her own up to lay upon his as the melody slowed until it trailed off completely. “The perfect gift from the perfect man,” she sighed as she closed the lid.

“Perfect, am I? Can I have that in writing for the next time I am nothing more than a sting of unintelligible, foreign swear words?”

Danielle rolled her eyes, and Robert rose from his crouched position, his knees cracking as he stood. He glanced down at his wristwatch, then out toward the tracks where a train would soon be arriving that would take them to the airport and eventually on to Tahiti. Danielle thought about the many years that separated her from the last time she had stood upon the island of her birth, and her hand rose to her stomach.

“You must think me foolish.”

Robert turned around to look at her. “What?”

“The expedition,” she said. “I know that you must be thinking it would be better for me and the baby to stay behind. But this is my project, Robert. You know that I have struggled for years to find even a small amount of funding, and then out of nowhere we are approached by the Hanso Foundation with an offer to finance the entire expedition at a moment’s notice. It is like an answer to a prayer. I am going to do this, and neither you nor the child growing inside of me is going to stop me.”

“Are you finished?” Robert grinned, “I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do, Danielle. I’d never have lasted this long if I thought I could have a hold over you.”

“Quite true.” The baby kicked again and Danielle settled back into the stiff seat in contentment. She twisted the windup key of the box in her lap and opened the lid so that her mother’s favourite melody surrounded her, her love, and their unborn child like a protective net as they waited for their train.

She thought of that music box now as she lay face down on the jungle floor, heard its melody play in her ears as she did that day when her beloved Robert had given it to her, when she had balanced it on her growing stomach and had felt the baby kick. Her baby. Alexandra. Alex.

She tried her best to turn her head so that she might see her daughter again, but her body would not obey her thoughts. And so it was that in the last moments of her miserable life she lay silent and alone, breathing in the wild scent of the jungle that had claimed her sanity while the daughter she had fought so hard to survive for turned her back and fled.

(lost) Bourbon From a Bottle of Wine

2008-03-29T03:18:14Z

Title: Bourbon From a Bottle of Wine
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairing: Sawyer/Kate.
Spoilers: Through "Eggtown."
Prompt: un_love_you - "You remind me of me."
Summary: Gapfiller between "The Economist" and "Eggtown." If he was a smart man, he would have never walked into that room. But he had never claimed to be anything more than a boy with a ninth grade education in his back pocket, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

The words hung heavy in the air. “Why don't we find out?” Sawyer had said it to her half-jokingly, as if to make up for his earlier behavior, to explain himself, despite the fact that he knew he did not owe her a thing. If he was a smart man, he would have never walked into that room. But he had never claimed to be anything more than a boy with a ninth grade education in his back pocket, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He had felt no regret when it came tumbling out of his mouth, but the silence that lingered on afterward and the incredulous expression on Kate’s face made him begin to second-guess his hasty declaration. After a few moments without saying a word, Kate stood up from the bed, an action which Sawyer mirrored, blocking her way to the door. Her eyes fell on his for a brief moment, and he thought he could see a bit of playfulness peering out from behind the iciness that had been present ever since he trapped her inside Ben’s bedroom. She pressed her body up against his and let her lips fall mere inches away from his.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ abo—”

Before he could finish, she quickly slid past him and was out the door before he had the chance to recover from her teasing advance.

“Hey! Freckles, hold your horses!” His forehead wrinkled in bewilderment as he followed after her.

His voice sent shivers down her spine as she hurried away from him. Gone was the cold, hurtful tone that had kept her at a distance for the past few days, and in its place was the rich voice laden with sarcasm that brought color to her cheeks. He had called her Freckles again, and in spite of herself, she found she could not resist. She stopped and smiled over her shoulder, eying him like jungle cat about to nab its prey. “You are too easy.”

“Hey, give a guy a break! What would ya have me do when I finally get you alone in a bedroom?”

“Always one for romance,” she chuckled, rolling her eyes.

He took a cautious step toward her, and she did not back away, but rather deepened her smile as she turned to face him.

“Oh, it’s romance you want? And here I thought you were only after a little tumble in the hay while the Doc is out making house calls.”

On instinct, Kate opened her mouth to defend herself, but Sawyer clucked his tongue like he was scolding a child.

“Now now, Freckles, how many times do I gotta to tell ya you ain’t got to lie to me? Though if truth be told, it ain’t no picnic, you goin’ back and forth like a damned pendulum.”

Kate said nothing, but looked toward the door and then back at him.

“Go on, Kate,” the tone of his voice changed, becoming harsh and merciless again. “I won’t stop you. I’ve never stopped you.”

She hesitated, then without looking back at him, walked toward the door and reached for the knob. But rather than open the door and disappear, she twisted the lock instead. Turning around slowly, she leaned up against the door with her arms folded across her chest.

Sawyer glowered at her, putting up his best front of indifference, but it did not linger long. Soon his eyes were softening and the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk as dimples materialized onto his unshaven cheeks. Kate pursed her lips together to deter a smile from forming as she pushed herself away from the door and made her way to the kitchen.

Sawyer waited a moment before following her, then stood against the wall in the entry way, wordlessly studying Kate’s backside which was sticking out from behind the refrigerator door.

“Ain’t they feedin’ you down at the beach?”

Kate’s head popped up over the door and she lifted up a bottle of already opened Dharma wine that looked more like grape juice than anything else.

Sawyer snorted. “Nothing but the best for our pal Benji.”

“It isn’t airplane booze, but it’s better than nothing.” She closed the refrigerator with her hip and set the bottle on the counter. Sawyer hid a smile at the memory that surfaced with her comment while Kate rummaged through the cupboards for glasses.

“Don’t need ‘em,” Sawyer decided, picking up the bottle and carrying it into the living room.

He sat down on the sofa and placed the bottle on the coffee table in front of him. Rather than sit beside him, Kate positioned herself on the floor and leaned up against the bottom of the couch. Sawyer shook his head and slid down into the spot next to her. He picked up the bottle and took a long swig. His face puckered up slightly as the bottle left his lips and he handed it over to Kate who hesitated before taking a drink as well. She smacked her lips at the sour taste and put the bottle down on the coffee table, giving it a little push to move it out of her reach. Sawyer smiled at what appeared to be Kate’s inexperience with wine and picked up the bottle again for another taste.

“Tastes like church wine,” he commented.

Kate looked at him disbelievingly. Sawyer spotted her out of the corner of his eye and arched his brow.

“What? I was a good, God-fearing, Southern boy once.” His accent seemed thicker than was normal.

Kate let out a skeptical laugh. “What happened?”

The smile faded from Sawyer’s face and something much darker took its place. He took another drink from the bottle. “Momma took a bullet and Daddy blew his brains out.”

She froze.

Hardly a moment passed before Sawyer snorted and handed the bottle over to Kate. “You don’t strike me as a wine and cheese kinda gal.” He glanced over at her as if sizing her up. “Tequila?”

Kate knew better than to address the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability Sawyer had let slip through his rough veneer and shook her head. “Bourbon.”

Sawyer looked impressed. “I can try, but I just don’t see you lost in a Bourbon haze.”

Kate shrugged as the words tumbled out of her mouth, caught up in a memory. “I was thirteen. Tom’s father was a doctor. Worked late nights. So we’d break into his liquor cabinet and run off to our tree. We’d only ever take sips. Didn’t want his old man to know what we’d done; but ever since then, I have loved the taste of Bourbon.” The glazed over look in her eyes subsided as tears surfaced in the corners of her eyes.

Sawyer was aware of her sudden onset of misery, but still he pressed her. This was the most she had ever spoken about herself. “Who’s Tom?”

She blinked and looked over at Sawyer as if she had misheard him. “What?” He said nothing, and continued to look at her. She was silent, but his stare was unsettling and finally she proclaimed, “The man I lo…” She stopped herself. “The man I killed.” She took a drink from the bottle and set it back on the table. “One of them, anyway.”

Sawyer continued to watch her after she spoke, watched as a solitary tear trailed down her freckled cheeks, and he was immediately sorry he had asked. Not because he was certain he had caused her pain, but because he hated to see her like this. Wounded. Exposed. Soft. He chose his words carefully. “Well, ain’t that sweet.”

Kate’s eyes immediately filled with rage, and she glared at him incredulously. But when she met his eyes she could see that they were filled with something that looked like sympathy. She turned her head and looked away, but Sawyer reached out and curled his finger under her chin to turn her face back to him. Her eyes were still brimming with tears, but she quickly pushed them back and stared Sawyer down defiantly. He let his hand fall from her face and shook his head.

“Why’re you really here, Freckles?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

She did not respond, but lay her head down on his shoulder, and he instinctively draped his arm around her and pulled her close to his chest. At that moment, he seemed to understand her need to run—it kept the demons at bay. He knew the feeling. And yet, the more he ran, the more he was chased by new demons, new cruel acts that would haunt him no matter where he tried to hide. He guessed that Kate had not yet come to understand that. But she would. Maybe then she would stay. Or maybe it would be too late.

(lost) ad finem fidelis

2008-03-28T00:51:12Z

Title: ad finem fidelis
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Penny (Penny/Desmond)
Spoilers: Up to "The Constant"
Prompt: lostsquee - “We are changed souls; we don’t look at things the same way anymore. For there was once a time when we expected the worst. But then the worst happened, did it not? And so we will never be surprised again.”
Word Count: 100 words
Summary: It should have ended happily ever after. She had found him; that should have been enough.

“I’ll find you.”

It should have ended happily ever after.

She had found him; that should have been enough.

But there are some wounds that time can only deepen, journeys that weaken rather than give strength.

He was no longer the man she had loved. His eyes were darker, filled with shadows of a past he would not speak of. His was a soul changed; but she would love the man he had become just the same.

“I'll come back to you, I promise.”

He had kept his word; he was back in her arms.

What was left of him.

(lost) who we are

2008-03-27T19:26:56Z

Title: Who We Are
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Desmond
Spoilers: Up to "Meet Kevin Johnson"
Prompt: "I thought if I acted like someone else, I’d feel more comfortable with myself." - lostsquee; "I can be like you." - un_love_you
Summary: "It’s not what you do, it’s what you are."

There was no moon that night, but the approaching storm lit up the sky like violent fireworks, providing just enough light through the tiny windows for Sawyer to weave his way between the bodies that littered the floor beneath his feet. Most of them lay motionless in sleep, but it could easily have been the eternal stillness of Death, whose icy grip had strangled the life from countless bodies scattered across the jungle outside.

There was a soft whimper in the dark, a sound he had grown accustomed to in the past few days. It was the sound of heartbreak, of loss. And though he could not make her out in the shadows, he could imagine Claire’s small frame trembling in the dark, arms outstretched in search of a bodily warmth she would never find. As he stepped out of the temple and into the night, he wondered for whom she cried that night. For the lover who had died or the son she had lost.

The air was thick and heavy with humidity as he leaned up against the stone wall just outside the entrance to the temple. He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and produced a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches that he had pilfered from the barracks before they had fled. When he brought the lit cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, his body went numb in ecstasy.

There was a flash of lightening immediately followed by a roar of thunder so deafening that it seemed to shake the very earth beneath his feet. Again and again the sky flashed, the heavens roared, and the island shook as if cowering in fear as Mother Nature unleashed her punishment for the crimes committed by its inhabitants.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat and Sawyer cast a glance over his shoulder. He could see nothing in the darkness, but then another flash of lightening illuminated the tunneled entrance to the temple and revealed a disheveled man with a look of absolute exhaustion in his eyes. Sawyer nodded his head in greeting and slid over on the wall to make room.

“Out again, eh, brother?”

Sawyer shrugged and passed the cigarette over to the newcomer who hesitated before taking a long drag. He exhaled so slowly and deeply that Sawyer glanced at him out of the corner of his eye to make sure he was still breathing, so very much like the sigh of death his exhale had seemed. Desmond passed the cigarette back to Sawyer.

“Gonna have to stop givin’ me that,” he said, motioning to the cigarette in Sawyer’s hand, “It’s bad for my health.”

Sawyer snorted and put the cigarette to his lips. “There’re things out in that jungle that’ll kill me before this will.”

“Aye, but do you really have to stand out here all night and expose yourself to both?”

“It ain’t natural, us penned up in there like animals waiting to be slaughtered. I’d rather be out there, fending for myself.”

“Then why’re you still here?”

Sawyer said nothing and flicked his cigarette out into the night. The two stood in silence for a few moments, watching as the storm raged overhead.

Desmond turned to look at Sawyer, whose face was still gazing upward, the reflection of lightening flashing in his eyes.

“You ever been in love, brother?”

Sawyer’s jerked his head down to look at Desmond. The question had caught him off guard, such a change from their usual rapport of drawing comfort from the presence of another who shared a vicious need to survive. Sawyer labored for his own survival because that was all he had known for most of his life; to do anything else was completely foreign to him. He sensed that Desmond was just as heedful of his own continued existence, but why after so many had fallen into hopelessness, he was not sure.

Sawyer turned to face him, but the other man’s eyes were staring out into the darkness.

“Once,” Sawyer answered before he could stop himself, “But it didn’t stick.”

Desmond turned his head to look at Sawyer. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “She ran.”

“People do frivolous things for love. Leave when they should stay. Yield when they should fight…” He sighed and went silent for a moment. “It’s worth fighting for. Struggling for. But if you never feel worthy, if you never feel worth her love, then what’s the point, yeah?”

Sawyer’s brow furrowed. “Why are you tellin’ me this?”

“Do you believe a person can change?”

He shook his head. “People don’t change. They can act, they can lie. Hell, they may even kid themselves into thinkin’ they’ve changed. Nobody smiles wider than a fool. But deep down…” He paused as a memory surfaced, one that had haunted him every day since. “‘It’s not what you do, it’s what you are.’ You can dress a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but he’s still a wolf.”

Desmond nodded slowly and looked back out in to the jungle.

There was a rumble of distant thunder. The storm had passed.

Sawyer pushed himself away from the wall and began to retreat back into the temple for another sleepless night. He glanced to see if Desmond was following, but he was motionless, still gazing thoughtfully into the dark jungle. He looked back at Sawyer.

“I have to believe a man can change. That the man he is is not necessarily the man he’s supposed to be.”

Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck, looked down at his feet for a moment and then back at Desmond. “Well,” he shrugged, “I never was an optimist.” He smiled half-heartedly and nodded his head toward the entrance of the temple.

Desmond joined him, and the two men quietly returned to their sanctuary and were swallowed up by the darkness. Bodies still littered the floor like a pillaged mausoleum, and Claire’s soft whimpers broke the silence and filled the air with a sadness so thick it was suffocating.

Sawyer found his corner and slid to the floor, resting his head against the cool, stone wall. Desmond’s words echoed in his ears, and as he closed his eyes and waited for morning, he wondered just who it was he was supposed to be.

(lost) temporary leader

2008-03-11T21:18:37Z

Title: Temporary Leader
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer
Spoilers: Season 3
Prompt: "Always wondered what this'd be like."
Word Count: 132 words
Summary: Tiny little drabble inspired by a viewing of 3x15 - Left Behind and Hurley's masterful attempt at turning Sawyer into their leader.

I have never actually belonged anywhere. Never stayed in one place long enough to.

But there was something about that day on the beach when everything sunk into place, and I thought for a moment I might have unwittingly stumbled into a situation where I could gain something without stealing it. As I stood there with that baby in my arms, I was foolish enough to think that I could be the person they were looking for, foolish enough to let that show in a smile.

Then I looked over and saw Sun’s face. And that cold stare pierced through the thin skin of comfort I had pulled up over my own coarse, battle-scarred hide and reminded me that it was all a lie.

I could never belong.

My kind never does.

(lost) Sea of Troubles

2008-03-01T16:56:26Z

Title: Sea of Troubles
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, a brief appearance by Kate.
Spoilers: Through 3x20, The Man Behind the Curtain.
Prompt: "Thought I needed this." - un_love_you
Summary: This stems from my disappointment in the writers at glossing over the consequences of Saywer's actions during The Brig. It picks up after he leaves Locke at The Black Rock.

His was a long walk. The trip seemed to pass twice as slowly as it had that morning. His feet were cut and scraped to the bone and each step caused a sharp pain to shoot up from the soles of his feet and echo off his churning stomach. But he was long past feeling; Sawyer was numb.

He passed the same tree for what seemed like the hundredth time and in his distress, kicked the base of it with his bare foot. This pain he felt, and as the curses tumbled out of his mouth, he collapsed onto the jungle floor, his head flying back until it met the rough bark of the tree behind him. His face was drenched with sweat, and his hair clung to his cheeks and forehead like a damp mop.

A ray of sunlight beamed down from a hole in the canopy of trees overhead while his mind swam dizzyingly in his head like the climax of a night-long drinking binge. He leaned over, his head between his legs, as his body attempted to purge the contents of his stomach, but it was empty. He leaned back against the tree and clenched his teeth as his body shook.

The events of that morning played out before him as if he were sitting in front of a movie screen. When he closed his eyes and opened them again, the scene remained, and he saw himself pounding mercilessly on an ancient wooden door; saw himself lash out as if acting on some animalistic instinct. The tightening chain, the final jerk of life, and then the long, uncomfortable silence that beat like a drum in his ears. And then came the panic.

Sawyer closed his eyes once more and took a few heaving breaths. When he opened his eyes moments later, he found himself alone in the jungle again, miles way from The Black Rock and from the conclusion of a pursuit he had chased since childhood. He was supposed to feel absolved, purged of his former life. But instead, he felt damned.

For years he had been waiting for that moment, for the chance to look into the eyes of the man who had created him, the man in whose image he had molded himself. He had played it over and over again in his head, imagined the remorse he would see in the eyes of the real Sawyer and how he would beg for mercy before a bullet silenced him. But there had been no remorse. Only eyes black with hatred and pure evil, beckoning a death that was just as ruthless as he had been.

Sawyer looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling. Maybe Mr. Sawyer had been right. Maybe he was weak. No, his mind told him. Locke was the cowardly one. Locke had been unable to battle his own demon, so he had sent in one of the demon’s own kind to finish him off. Sawyer had entered the brig expecting to find answers but instead had come face to face with himself. When he had looked into the eyes of the man who called himself Tom Sawyer, he had seen his own soul’s reflection. As the man gloated over his past conquests, Sawyer saw his own replay in the back of his mind. He had seen the man as a monster. And he was no better.

With a clench of his jaw, he pulled himself together and stood up, ignoring the throb of his bruised and bloodied feet. He steadied himself against the tree, glanced up at the sun through the leafy canopy to orient himself and set out again for the camp.

When he first stepped out of the jungle and onto the familiar beach, he was overcome with an intense feeling of relief and comfort, much like he had when he and Kate had finally made their way back after a week in captivity. He looked around at his fellow castaways, some scurrying about like ants in an ant farm while others lounged around at their leisure like tourists on holiday. None seemed neither aware nor concerned with his absence. But he had only been gone for a number of hours, the entire day, maybe. Had it really only been that long?

Sawyer held his chin up and walked in the direction of his tent, favoring his left foot slightly which was still tingling from when he had released his frustrations out on the tree. He neared his tent, but did not go in. Instead, he walked past it, not stopping until he had reached a quiet piece of beach out of sight from the others at camp. Peeling out of his sweat-drenched t-shirt, he tossed it into the sand followed by his unloaded gun and the tape recorder Locke had given him, and slipped into the salty water.

The ocean felt cool against his hot skin and relieved some of the pain in his bloodied feet, and he dove beneath the waves brought in by the rising tide. For a second, he considered staying below the cool waves and forgetting to breathe, but the thought was fleeting. He surfaced and began to swim toward shore, unable to discern whether the shame he felt was because the thought had even come to mind or because he was too weak to follow through with it. His water-soaked jeans felt exaggeratedly heavy as if they were trying to drag him back down into the ocean as he walked out of the surf. Despite having just emerged from the water, he still felt dirty. Unclean.

The waves had carried him a small ways down the beach from where he had left his things, and as he glanced down the shoreline, his brow furrowed at the sight of a familiar figure walking towards him. His jaw clenched characteristically, and he put on a stern face, hoping he could somehow avoid the conversation that would inevitably take place.

“Where have you been? You just disappeared.” Her voice called out to him over the din of the ocean before he was close enough to feign ignoring her. “Where were you?” Her cheeks looked flushed, her forehead wrinkled up as it did when she was worked up over something, but Sawyer’s mind was too weighed down to care.

He glowered at her instead of responding and bent over to pick up his things, careful to conceal the tape recorder and gun. Kate hovered over him as he did so, and he let out a groan and tossed his hair. “What? Are you my parole officer now, on top of everything else?”

His gruffness took her by surprise, and she squinted her eyes, studying his face. “What happened to you?” she asked, but he looked away. “Is this because I wouldn’t let you walk me to my tent?” she teased, changing tactics.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed.

“James,” she said softly, as if coaxing a startled horse. She reached out to lay her hand on his cheek, but he drew back from her touch as if something from him might spread onto her.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled through clenched teeth and turned his back on her. As he moved, his gun fell from within the folds of his shirt and dropped into the sand.

Kate was quick to retrieve it. “Why are you carrying a gun?”

Sawyer reached out and plucked it from her grip. “Bad neighborhood,” he replied, tucking it back into his shirt. The gun clinked against the tape recorder, and Kate’s eyes darted toward the bundle in Sawyer’s hand.

“What else do you…”

“It’s nothin’,” he interrupted. “Look, ain’t there anyone else’s business you can nose your way into? I’m sure the Doc’s ego could use a little strokin’.”

Kate shook her head and let out a sigh like she had a bad taste in her mouth.

“Trouble in paradise?” Sawyer smirked. “Ain’t easy playin’ second fiddle, is it, Kate?” The tone of his voice lowered until it was almost a growl as he said her name.

Kate visibly recoiled at the sound of her name rolling off his tongue, and she made no attempt to stop him as he turned his back on her and walked into the jungle.

It was the very last place he wanted to be, but his discomfort at being back in the jungle was nothing compared to the way his skin crawled when Kate had tried to touch him. Resigned to stay hidden within the trees until he was certain she had skulked off, Sawyer pulled the sticky t-shirt over his head and looked down at the tape recorder in his hands. He pressed “play.”

As Juliet’s voice spelled out her plan to “collect samples” from the women in the beach camp, Sawyer felt his already simmering blood begin to boil. His mind closed the curtain on thoughts of The Black Rock and the deeds that had been done within its hull; hidden, but not forever. Vengeance, he knew, was the perfect mask for self-loathing.

--

“Hey, Sayid.”

“What happened to you?”

“I was with Locke.”

(lost) Just This Once

2008-02-23T21:46:38Z

Title: Just This Once
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer/Kate
Spoilers: Up to 3x17
Prompt: "Good enough." - un_love_you
Summary: Gapfiller, picks up the day Sawyer gives Kate the mix tape.
Notes: This sat unfinished on my computer for almost a year, but Eggtown finally gave me the inspiration to just finish it already.

Alaska. If he ever made it off this shithole hell of an island, that is where he would go. Some place with weather like a permanent air conditioner. Half-frozen tundra was his idea of paradise now. No more of the sun and sand that was always bearing down on him from all directions, blinding his eyes and grinding its way past his clothing and into his skin.

From his perch at the water’s edge, Sawyer had a front row seat as the sun sank further into the horizon, and the sky began to turn its usual shade of blue just before nightfall. The waves crashed furiously against the shore, drowning out the sounds of civilization down the beach. He took a swig from the can of warm Dharma beer that he had been nursing for the past quarter of an hour and grimaced. “My kingdom for an ice box,” he muttered to himself.

Steady gusts of wind whipped his hair around his head, setting off a string of curses as he tried to brush the windblown tangles away from his eyes.

“You need a haircut, James.”

Her voice had startled him, having spent a greater part of the day in self-imposed exile. Before he could turn around to face her, she had already sat down in the sand beside him.

“You offerin’, Freckles?” he asked. He did not look at her, but instead cast his eyes out toward the rapidly darkening sea and sky. She replied with silence, and the two of them sat for several moments, shoulder to shoulder, without a word.

The sun finally dipped below the heaving waters of the rising tide, and the sky around the beach glowed orange from the campfires that were scattered along the shore nearby. Sawyer took one final drink from the can of beer and crushed it in his hand as if it were made out of paper. Kate eyed the can with a look of bemusement. “Where’d you get the beer?”

“Roger Workman made a beer run,” he answered vaguely and began pulling on a piece of rope tied to a stake at his feet. A net appeared out of the water and as it neared the sand in front of them, Kate could see half a dozen white cans stamped with the Dharma logo.

When she looked at him quizzically, he added, “He forgot the ice.”

Sawyer used the bottom of his shirt to wipe the seawater off of the top of one of the mildly chilled cans and handed it to Kate, who graciously accepted it. He watched her pop open the top and take a drink before helping himself to another.

When their earlier silence began to make a reprise, Sawyer slowly got to his feet and, swinging his arm back, cast the net of beer back into the black water like a skipping stone. He secured the end of the rope to the post in the ground and covered it up with a fistful of sad. Beer in hand, he turned his back on Kate and started for the camp, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her palm through the cloth of his worn, cotton shirt as he turned around to confront her, his facial expression masked by the growing darkness. Even in the dim moonlight, Sawyer could make out Kate’s glistening eyes, and he stopped her before she had the chance to speak.

“Don’t,” he breathed through clenched teeth in a manner that was somewhere between playful and wounding. “You can lie to yourself, but you ain’t gotta lie to me.”

There was something very karmic about the situation he now found himself in. The con man, who had made a profession out of stealing women’s hearts along with their money, had somehow allowed his cold, dead heart to be resuscitated by a woman who only pretended to love him. It was fitting that this love should be so wounding— he had earned it. And so he did nothing to stop it. Rather, he invited her to have a go at his heart; and when he felt a hint of pain, of love-sick torture, he gritted his teeth and bore it like a penance, like a guilt-ridden traitor accepts the ax.

Kate shook her head at his words and opened her mouth to speak again, but this time Sawyer silenced her with his lips. The kiss was gruff and angry and knocked the air out of Kate entirely. The can of beer she had been holding fell to the sand and created a small, foamy moat around her feet.

It was as if he did not want her to apologize, as if he refused to believe the truth that lay behind her words, if there was any at all. He was determined to see to his own unhappiness. He had allowed her to thaw the frosty veneer he had put up for most of his life, and now he was paying for his actions.

It did not take long for Kate’s protests to die away, and the two once again slipped into the comfortable, tangled mess of heat and flesh that simplified the complicated. As usual, it was Kate who broke apart from their fervent embrace of tongues and arms, but Sawyer grabbed her and pulled her back toward him in one rough movement. Their faces inches apart, Kate’s breath hitched in her throat as Sawyer’s hands caressed her cheek with a gentleness that betrayed the forceful way he had just wrenched her to him. His fingers traced her jaw line and down her neck, lingering on her collarbone for a moment before finally slipping off her shoulder and down to her empty hand.

“I wanna show you somethin’.” His words came in a slow whisper and when he felt Kate’s fingers intertwine with his own, he began to walk toward the dark jungle.

The moonlight filtering through the canopy of trees overhead provided just enough light for Sawyer to find his way through the thick foliage that surrounded them. After several long minutes of walking in darkness, they arrived at a moonlit clearing that Kate recognized as having been the location of Hurley’s golf tournament what seemed like years ago. But where the valley had been empty then, save for a makeshift flag, she could now make out the contours of an old Volkswagen bus.

“Where did that come from?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Hurley found it,” he replied with a half-hearted smile as the memory of that day replayed in his mind.

Sawyer led her to the passenger’s side door, savoring the creaking sound that it made as it opened. Visions of lazy childhood summers in small-town USA temporarily flooded his mind—“borrowed” cars with sticky vinyl interiors, cigarettes, and pilfered bottle rockets. Kate’s lips curled up into a smile as if she were savoring a similar memory of misspent youth, and she climbed inside, the door creaking shut behind her.

The keys dangled from the ignition and when Sawyer sat down in the driver’s seat, he jammed them farther in with the heel of his hand and turned the keys counterclockwise. The engine did not start, but the interior of the van came to life, a guitar-heavy melody blasting out of the speakers mid-song. He leaned over to turn the volume down with a suppressed grin. “Musta missed the dance party.”

In truth, Sawyer had hiked to the bus almost every day during Kate’s recent absence. It filled him with a sense of normalcy to be seated behind the wheel of a vehicle, albeit a hippy bus. After having been trapped on the island for going on three months and having survived kidnapping, multiple gun-shot wounds, and torture, he relished any link to life before the crash. Kate seemed to be having similar sentiments, as she settled back into the lumpy seat, her eyes lowered as if in thought. After a moment, she looked up at him with a smile.

“Is this--?” She squinted down to look at the label on the 8-track, but it had been worn off, bleached by countless days of sunlight and humidity.

“Three Dog Night,” he finished for her with a nod. “I never much cared for ‘em, but under the circumstances, they ain’t too bad.”

The song played on as moonlight crept onto the dashboard and the warm night air blew in through the open windows. Kate had relaxed considerably, and the sight of a genuine smile on her face snapped the tension that had been building up inside of Sawyer all day.

“You know, this feels like we’re on a date,” she teased, biting at the corner of her lower lip.

He smiled. “That was the general idea.”

“Oh really?”

His dimples deepened.

There was a small, hissed silence in the music as the track changed, and then the bus was filled with the grating sound of sappy, electric guitar and Danny Hutton’s airy falsetto.

“A storybook feeling about you foretells the happiness that could be.”

Sawyer stirred abruptly in his seat and leaned forward to shut off the music. Despite the fact that he had developed the habit of sitting back on the hood of the bus, lazily draining the car’s battery and finding solace in the lyrics of some long-forgotten tune from the 1970s, schmaltzy ballads were the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment. He might as well stand outside Kate’s tent with a boom box held up over his head.

“So dry those brown eyes that I’m kissing, and maybe you’ll think you love me.”

His hand was on the ignition, but Kate reached out to stop him, her hand on his, playfully pushing it away. She leaned over and kissed him through a curtain of hair—his, course and windblown; hers, soft and coiled. He felt a sudden surge of excitement as he always did when she initiated things, always in private, always hidden away from unwanted eyes. Neither here nor there, when he could feel her smile through the kisses she placed on his lips, feel her cheeks flush under his touch. It was sentimental and it was trite. But if it worked for Kate, than it worked for him.

Her fingers traveled up his face and got lost in his hair as Sawyer battled with the gaping distance between the two seats. He shifted his weight so that he could lean further into her, and she let out a soft yelp and arched her back as if an invisible ice cube were sliding down her skin. Sawyer pulled away, his lips upturned in a smile, eyebrows arched quizzically.

Kate stood up as best she could in the low bus, reached behind her and retrieved a cassette tape from her back pocket. She tossed it onto the dashboard. Sawyer’s eyes wandered over to where it landed, to the words “The Best of Phil Collins,” and then moved back over to her.

“What? Were you fixin’ to exchange it for somethin’ better? What you get is what you got, Freckles.”

An introspective smile flashed onto her face, but she did not respond. The van was filled with the silence of static and as the next track came on over the stereo, she leaned back in her seat and stretched her legs so that her feet dangled out the open passenger’s side window.

“Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain with the rain in Shambala…”

Kate looked over at Sawyer, whose eyes were still fixed on her attentively. That stare. The one he had seen mirrored in her face only once. Kate rolled her eyes to hide the blush that was rising to her freckled cheeks and smiled.

And for Sawyer, that was good enough.

(lost) deep greens and blues

2008-02-16T05:07:26Z

Title: Deep Greens and Blues
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Kate, Sawyer, Jack. Sawyer/Kate.
Prompt: Challenge #65: Free For All lostfichallenge
Spoilers: Through Season 3 finale.
Summary: From inside the helicopter, Kate could still see him as he broke away from the group and disappeared into the jungle.

It should have been a welcome sight. For months, she had imagined what this moment might feel like, should it ever come. Never had she envisioned herself uncertain, anxious. The wind kicked up as the rotor blades of the helicopter in front of her picked up speed, and rather than move toward it, she actually backed up into the body standing directly behind her.

The grip on her hand was relaxing, and as the grasp was released altogether, she turned around to face him. She searched for any sign of hesitancy, of loss, but he looked back at her with eyes of stone.

“Kate!” A plea rose up above the roar of the helicopter.

She looked over her shoulder at Jack who was ducking just outside the opening to the passenger compartment of the helicopter. Beyond him, Kate could see four more pairs of eyes looking out at her, clouded with urgency. She turned back to look at the man whom she was leaving behind. His face had softened some.

“Time’s up, Freckles.”

There was a brief silence where the two simply looked at one another. Finally, it was Sawyer who spoke, his voice laden with sarcasm.

“I know we been real good at playin’ make believe, but let’s not pretend we’re the ‘goodbye’ kind.”

“James…” Kate began, her voice taking on the tone that frequently accompanied a playful eye roll, but she had never intended to finish that thought. She knew he was right, and she had never been one for goodbyes. They were messy and unwanted, and she had seldom stayed in one place long enough for them to be necessary. But somehow this felt different. It had always been different with him.

Sawyer raised his hands to her cheeks like he did each time he was about to kiss her, and Kate leaned her head back and closed her eyes as his fingers brushed through her hair. But the kiss never came. Her eyes opened as his hands dropped from her face, and his right hand landed on her shoulder, slid down her arm to her elbow, and then moved over to her stomach. She watched as his gaze fixed on his hand for a moment, before he pulled it away as if he had been burned. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were nearly brimming over, and Kate was taken aback at this open display of emotion. He always tried so hard to mask what he was feeling, but after all they had been through, he had become an open book to her. As quickly as it had appeared however, the emotion drained from his face, and he once again became the man she had grown used to these long months on the island-- brow furrowed, jaw clenched. And she smiled.

“We’ll be back for you.”

It need not have been said, but somehow the words fumbled out of her mouth anyway. Sawyer snorted and flashed a dimple.

“We both know you won’t, Kate.”

His eyes burned intensely into hers for one last instant before he grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shove toward the helicopter. He made eye contact with Jack who nodded, then he stepped back to fall in with the others as they watched their last chance at escaping the island lift off from the green where it had rested for the past two weeks and disappear into the cloudy sky above. From inside the helicopter, Kate could still see him as he broke away from the group and disappeared into the jungle.

--

The beat of her heart throbbed in her ears as she pulled her car in behind his. Already she could see him in the glow of her headlights. As she climbed out of the car, she was stunned by the face of the man who staggered toward her. It had been one thing to hear his vodka-soaked voice on her cell phone and in voicemails she could never listen to in their entirety, but it was quite another to come face to face with the shell-of-a-man who stood before her. The closer she came to him, the more her heartbeat pounded inside of her head. The sight of him forced a memory from the back of her mind: the whir of helicopter blades temporarily filled her ears and her stomach felt warm, as if the hand that had touched it then had never left. She suddenly wanted to run, to get back into her car and drive away, but she made herself speak.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Even as he spoke, she could feel herself inching back toward her car. With every word from his lips, the air in her lungs grew heavier. She kept him talking only to distract herself from the claustrophobic feeling that worsened every moment longer she stood there with him. She had to get away.

“I have to go. He’s gonna be wondering where I am.”

The words had barely left her lips before he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pulled her back. His fingers gripped her arms so tightly that the trembling of his body passed through his fingertips and sent a shiver down her spine. His face was close enough to hers the she could smell the liquor on his breath.

“We were not supposed to leave.” He pleaded with her, his tear-stained eyes frantically searching hers.

“Yes we were,” she snapped and pried loose from his arms. Her blood was boiling. She should never have come. “Goodbye, Jack.”

--

The house was pitch black when she pushed open the door. Running her hand along the wall beside her, she flicked on a light switch. Pale light from an ornate lamp on a nearby table illuminated the room. Kate sighed as she looked briefly around the house that never felt like home. She set the keys down on a table near the door and made her way to the second floor of the house. She caught herself walking soundlessly on the balls of her feet, and it gave her pause. Old habits were hard to break. There was no need to creep through her own home, no reason to fear what might be lurking at the top of the stairs. Kate threw a light switch and illuminated the hallway. There were several closed doors leading to rooms with no furniture in them, but the one closest to her remained open.

In the light that filtered into the room from the hallway, she could see the silhouette of a man slumped over in an easy chair, his chest rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. She neared the chair and leaned down to place a small kiss on her forehead.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she whispered, but Sam Austen did not stir.

As she straightened back up and pushed the hair away from her eyes, movement outside the open window just behind the chair caught her eye. A figure had stepped under the street lamp just in front of the house and was looking straight into the window.

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up as she squinted her eyes in an attempt to see more clearly. As her eyes focused on what she could now tell was a man, a warm, spring breeze picked up, rustling the new leaves on the trees that lined the drive and sending the curtains inside the window fluttering like ghosts. She froze at what sounded like voices on the wind.

Whispers.

No, not here.

She took a step back from the window, her eyes still fixed on the figure of the man on the sidewalk below. The whispers grew louder and more distinct, until one voice rose above the others.

“Time’s up, Freckles.”

Her heart stopped in her chest, and all went silent. She realized she had been holding her breath and let out a small gasp.

There was a thump behind her, and hand clutched to her chest, she spun around to meet a pair of blue eyes, heavy with sleep. She took a step forward and was rewarded by a flash of dimples, and Kate winced as she always did. Just like his daddy’s.

She leaned over the crib and pulled the standing toddler into her arms. Her heart was still thumping wildly against her chest, but her son snuggled up to it anyway.

“Sweet baby, James,” she whispered to him in a sing-song voice. He hummed for a moment and drifted off against her shoulder.

Kate glanced out the window. The street was empty.

The boy in her arms sighed in his sleep, and as she stroked the curls of his light brown hair, her mind raced.

“We were not supposed to leave.” Jack’s voice echoed inside her head. “We were not supposed to leave.” Those words had replayed in her head over and over again on the drive back until they had lost all meaning.

She looked down at the sleeping child in her arms and she knew. “Yes we were.”

As she tucked her son (“our son”) back into bed, and her eyes strayed back over to the open window, she knew. They were meant to leave, but now, now they were supposed to go back.

prompts for un_love_you

2008-02-12T21:46:56Z

The mod for the community seems to have vanished, but I am still going to use the prompts on this table for inspiration.

01.	You were right about me.	02.	I was wrong about you.	03.	This cancels out the hurt.
04.	I need to want you.	05.	You can be like me.	06.	I want to need you.
07.	Prove it.	08.	I'm cruel.	09.	Always wondered what this'd be like.
10.	I'm broken.	11.	Thought I needed this.	12.	I'm drunk.
13.	I want to hurt you.	14.	I'm awake and you're breathing.	15.	This is my desperation in action.
16.	I want to break you.	17.	Wish I didn't love you.	18.	I pity you.
19.	This isn't about you at all.	20.	I hate you, you bitch.	21.	You'll do.
22.	I hate myself.	23.	You remind me of me.	24.	I want you to hate me.
25.	You remind me of someone.	26.	I can be like you.	27.	Author's Choice.
28.	Author's Choice. - Good enough.	29.	Author's Choice.	30.	Author's Choice.

(harry potter) panic prone

2007-08-31T01:49:28Z

Title: Panic Prone
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Ron, Hermione, Harry
Timeline: post Deathly Hallows
Author's Note: The week after the release of Deathly Hallows, I was still on a Harry Potter high. A friend attempted to feed my Harry Potter hunger by prompting me to write about a certain moment post-Deathly Hallows. This is the result.

Ron brushed the cinders off his shoulders as he stepped out of the fireplace and into the study of his London home. He smiled when the familiar fragrance of rose petals and leather-bound books washed over him. He would never tire of the feeling he got whenever he surveyed his surroundings and knew that everything he saw belonged to him: the plush furniture that reminded him of the good old days at Hogwarts; the stairway in the foyer leading up to two more levels of his Gregorian home. And most importantly, the beautiful, brown-haired woman that emerged from the doorway to the kitchen. She was the thing he was proudest to call his own, though it was likely that if he ever put it to her quite like that, he would get an earful. Which he was sure would be coming his way tonight.

Hermione had spoken to him earlier that day at the Ministry, letting him know that she would be leaving a few hours early and not to wait for her as was their usual routine. It had all seemed rather suspicious to Ron at the time, coupled with the fact that she had become unusually distant in recent days. Their months of unbroken nuptial bliss seemed to be fizzling out like a poorly cast Patronus.

He had mentioned it casually to Harry as the two were queued in front of the Ministry fireplaces and was met with one of Harry's all-knowing grins. "Maybe she's pregnant, mate."

Ron had stopped in his tracks at that and had to be pushed along by a tall, horse-like witch standing behind him. Harry laughed and clapped his arm around Ron's shoulders. "I know that look. I’ve had that look. Come on, I'll buy you a pint."

Two hours and one trip to the Leaky Cauldron later, Ron was standing in the hallway just outside his study, looking into the eyes of his wife. He was sure that he would be in for it for having been two hours late, but instead of a furrowed brow and tightly-pursed lips, her face was very pale, with traces of what appeared to be worry peering out from her brown eyes.

He stepped forward to approach her, switching on the charm and a smile as he did so. When he reached her, he leaned down and pressed an affectionate kiss ‘hello’ to her lips, his smile broadening when he felt her stand on the tops of her toes in order to be level with him. He expected her to pull away with a huff of anger, but instead, she seemed to cling tightly to him for a moment before finally stepping back and turning into the kitchen.

Ron followed her inside and what he saw nearly made his jaw drop. Set on their dining table was a grand feast that would have put the house-elves at Hogwarts to shame, and he could feel his mouth watering despite the four pints of Onesimus Borden Ale that was resting comfortably in his stomach. He gazed at Hermione with a look of wonder. She never ceased to amaze him.

“Honestly, woman, you are more than I deserve.”

A smile cracked the unease from her face, and she rolled her eyes. “No argument there,” she joked with a soft laugh.

Hermione gestured toward the table and he sat down in his usual chair and began to devour the well-prepared meal. Ron looked at her from across the table, over the mounds of steaming food and frowned. She had scarcely eaten a bite, and apprehension had found its way back onto her face. And suddenly Ron understood. He was about to be given unsettling news, something that Hermione thought would upset him so much that she had laid out a feast of his favourite foods in order to soften the blow, to bribe him. He could feel his face growing hot, and the fact that she was avoiding his gaze quickly pushed him over the edge.

“What’s going on, Hermione? What is all this?” he asked in a voice that came out much sterner than he had intended.

He was immediately fraught with regret when Hermione went as white as a ghost. He scowled at his own petulance and stood up from the table, rounding about to slide into the chair beside her. He reached out and pulled her small hand into his larger, freckled one.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “That came out before I had the chance to think.”

“No, you’re right,” she replied, glancing down at their clamped hands, “There is something I wanted to tell you—need to tell you.”

Hermione paused for a moment and looked away, and in that instant, Ron had a sinking feeling in the pit of his beer-saturated stomach. All common sense and his earlier conversation with Harry vanished, leaving only the idiotic feeling that had been nagging at the back of his mind. She was going to leave him, wasn’t she?

“Hermione, listen…” He began to scramble for words at the exact moment that Hermione pulled hers together.

“I’m—I’m pregnant.”

They both froze, staring wide-eyed at one another. Suddenly, Ron was on his feet.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant,” Hermione repeated more slowly. She looked as if she did not know whether to be fearful or infuriated. Her face was contorted into a mixture of both.

Ron paused, and for a fraction of a second, looked reminiscent of the time he had belched up slugs years ago. But then his lips quickly curved into a toothy grin and he pumped his fist into the air.

“What?” he repeated, crouching down so that he was at eye level with her. “Say it again.”

His reaction had completely caught her off guard. She found her breath as one soft, musical laugh escaped her throat.

“I’m going to have your child, you half-wit.”

Ron let out a triumphant whoop, snatched Hermione up from her seat and twirled her around in a circle. By the time he had placed her back on her own two feet again, she was laughing as tears drained down her reddening cheeks. Ron was immediately attentive, cradling her face in his hands and brushing away tears with his thumbs.

“Oh, Ron,” she cried in what sounded more like a sob than a laugh. “Are you really happy? I was worried that—”

“You thought that I would hit the roof like I always do.”

She nodded ruefully.

“Honestly,” he said with a smile, “I thought I would, too. But now… I can’t imagine a time when I felt more happy.”

Hermione’s eyes brimmed over with tears once more, and she cupped her hands together and brought them to her chest vulnerably. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I do!” he replied, leaning down to kiss her tear-moistened lips. “I’m going to be a father!”

Hermione flung her arms around Ron’s neck and buried her face in his chest. He held her tightly, his chin resting upon the wild curls of her hair. He would have to remember to thank Harry.

Hermione looked up at him with love in her eyes, and he rewarded her with a slow, lingering kiss.

But for now, celebration was in order.

- July 27, 2007

(harry potter) the road to awe

2007-08-30T21:36:55Z

Title: The Road To Awe
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Remus, Tonks
Timeline: OotP, just after the battle at the Ministry
Summary: Remus attempts to sort through what he's lost.
Notes: This was my first attempt at Harry Potter fanfiction, a story that I began last December following a second reading of Order of the Phoenix. After that particular reading, I found myself once again caught up in the life of Sirius Black and those who loved him. The writing of this story continued off and on for a number of months until just before the release of Deathly Hallows, the events of which, rendered the whole purpose of this fiction obsolete. Nevertheless, here is the story, in all its unbeta'd glory. Please keep in mind the fact that this story was written prior to knowledge of the events of Deathly Hallows. The story takes into account the fact that Andromeda Tonks was Sirius Black's favorite cousin, but ignores the fact that Tonks and Sirius had no contact prior to his imprisonment in Azkaban. The title is taken from a line from the film The Fountain, which I had seen and loved at the time I began writing: "Death is the road to awe."

The world moved as if spellbound--in slow, fluid motions. The rapid-fire beating of his heart and the frantic struggling of the boy in his arms felt out of place with the slow, graceful fall he saw before his eyes. A smile that felt so familiar, a hint of surprise, and then he was gone. The world fell in stride with his pounding heart, and he clung tighter to the young body thrashing against his own, more out of desperation than restraint.

"He is gone."

The words fumbled off his tongue, and even as he uttered them, he is desperate for them to be a lie. The boy tore away and bounded toward danger, but he could not help but let his eyes linger on the veil-- fluttering ever-so slightly, as if propelled by a draft of air. His eyes remained transfixed and for one fleeting moment, he thought that he might just walk through. His feet carried him to the edge of the dais, his arm outstretched, reaching for the trembling cloth. His hand stopped mere inches from the veil. Voices. Above the din of the battle being waged, he swore he could hear voices. And one of them was calling out his name. "Mooney."

The scene replayed over and over again in his dreams. Nightmares to vivid, too dire to be real. But the deep, rumbling emptiness that split his insides every time he awoke reminded him that it is real. It happened. He was--he is. Gone.

Remus' eyes fluttered open and were met by near-darkness. He felt a pain in his neck, and as he raised his head from the cradle of his arms, his eyes adjusted to his faintly-lit surroundings. Embers of a dying fire gave off just enough light for him to recognise where he was. The long wooden table before him had once been surrounded by a motley bunch, defying all conventions of a normal family. And yet, a family it had been. There were blood ties and school ties, friendships and love. For an instant, Remus' mind began to play tricks on him and scenes from his past played mercilessly in his head, full of faces who were no longer for this world, those who had been casualties of time and of evil. So many friends lost, families in ruin.

His eyes adjusted fully to the dim light of the room, and he felt almost comforted by the sombre lighting. It felt natural, appropriate. Right in a world gone wrong. A shadow loomed over him, and he cast a mournful glance over his shoulder at the intruder. At any other moment, he would have been greeted by a clumsy grin and have been happy to return the smile. But not tonight. Instead there was a frown, and where there usually stood a head of short hair in the brightest shades of pink was a head of thick, black hair that disappeared behind a pair of willowy shoulders. Remus turned his head back and did not speak a word.

"Thought I would find you here." Her voice was soft and monotonous.

"It's still headquarters for The Order, Nymphadora." He did not look up at her, nor did he flinch when she sat down beside him and took his hand.

The two sat in silence save for the crackle of the fire behind them. A loud rattle followed by low and muffled grumbling sliced through the quiet. Tonks threw an unsettled glance and the door leading to the cupboard she knew to be where Kreature the House Elf had made his nest. There was a chair from the table thrust under the door knob and from the loud popping noises accompanied by frustrated mumbling she heard coming from the other side of the door, she gathered that some sort of anti-disapparation charm had been placed on the little room. She threw a worried glance at Remus who sat as still as a statue staring at his hands.

"Remus," she began, but stopped when he withdrew his hand from hers and started to stand up from the table. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. "You forget," she said in a voice that was almost a whisper, "Sirius was my family, too."

Remus was halfway out the door, but her words gave him pause. He turned around and held her gaze for a moment before finally slipping into the darkness of the rest of the gloomy house.

---

A stormy night—the kind that begged to be spent by candle-light. A book lay open on the arm of a shabby chair, but the pages went unread. Rain beat heavily against the dark house and dripped into a puddle that had formed along the sill of a window left partially open. Two men sat across from one another, the heavy silence between them almost suffocating when coupled with the dampness brought in by the storm.

It had been mere hours since they last saw one another, but years since they had been alone. Neither one could forget the circumstances that had kept them apart for those long years, yet neither could push aside the presence of the past.

Rain water continued to drip upon the window sill, and one of the silent figures turned his head toward the new moon barely visible in the storm-ravaged night's sky. When his eyes lingered back to the man seated across from him, he was gone. But so was the drip-drop of the rain. He felt a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it strange, but the feelings that it igniting all too familiar and inexplicably comforting. He raised his own hand to cover the bony one on his shoulder, still gaunt from years spent locked away for crimes he did not commit. He felt the brush of unkempt hair sweep past the sides of his face seconds before the warmth of a kiss descended upon the top of his head. As he leaned his head back until it was resting gently against a thin, but warm body, one word broke the silence. "Mooney."

Outside, the night had passed, and the first signs of dawn peered into the room through shreds in the thick, velvet curtains that hung from the windows. A large horse-like creature with the head of an eagle sat like a sphinx on the remnants of what was once a bed fit for a queen. Remus' joints felt stiff after spending so much of the night in various positions of unrest, his eyes only closing long enough to be haunted briefly by scenes from his past. He pulled himself up off the floor and stretched his lanky figure. The creature on the bed stirred slightly, and Remus approached him slowly, his long arm outstretched. His hand was met by the nuzzle of a large beak, and he reached out to stroke the feathers of the enormous head with his other hand.

"G'morning, Buckbeak." His voice was hoarse and unfamiliar to his ears.

Buckbeak made a sort of cooing noise and lay his head down at his hooves in a mournful way that made Remus think he understood everything.

The old house shifted suddenly, creaking like an ancient rocking chair, and he was reminded of another house with a reputation for strange and unsettling noises. He shook his head slightly, as if it would somehow stop the excavation of the depths of his mind that called forth memories and faces he would, for the moment, sooner forget. Stifling a yawn, he opened the bedroom door, slipped into the hallway, and made for the stairs. He was halfway to the kitchen when he noticed a small beam of light in the otherwise still-darkened house. His heart beat quickened for a fraction of a second as he recognised the room as having been the one Sirius had inhabited upon his return to number twelve Grimuald Place. He reached out his hand and pushed open the large, creaking door.

The room was dark, save for a recently kindled fire. The figure of a young woman stood before the flames of the fireplace, looking down at what appeared to be a tattered photograph. Aware of Remus’ entrance, she dropped the hand holding the photograph to her side and began to speak.

“Sirius was one of my mother’s favourite people. She always praised him for having enough sense to run away from the madness of the House of Black. They used to have a laugh at having been shunned from the family.”

As she spoke, Remus slowly made his way across the room to her side.

“I rarely saw any of my mother’s family. You can imagine how my aunts were not so keen to associate themselves with my blood-traitor mother. Had it not been for Sirius, I would have imagined the Blacks to be very black indeed.” Tonks paused for a moment and glanced at the face of Remus beside her. The light of the flames illuminated the shadows of his world-wearied face. He returned her gaze but said nothing.

“He would come round often for tea, and the resulting afternoons would usually be spent with me suppressing tears of laughter. He was so spirited then. He would do almost anything just to make me smile.”

She hesitated and held up the torn photograph at which she had previously been gazing upon. Three young faces blinked and smiled back at her. The young men in the photograph could not have been more than seventeen. Two of them stood with their arms slung chummily around one another’s shoulders, while the third, bespeckled boy stared amusedly at the torn edge of the photograph and then back at his cohorts.

She thrust it toward Remus, who took it in his own unsteady hand. "You are the last one," she whispered, glancing knowingly into his eyes. She raised her hand and cradled his hollow, unshaven cheek for a brief moment, then placed a small kiss where her hand had been. A little colour slowly began to filter back into his face as he watched her leave the room.

Alone again, Remus looked down at the enchanted photograph in his hands. The adolescent version of himself waved, but his hand was quickly knocked aside by a young Sirius Black who was still holding close to the young Remus’ shoulders. Remus eyed each of the young boys with silent longing. The memory of when that photo had been taken was still fresh, and he could see clearly in his mind’s eye James, Sirius, Peter, and himself on the afternoon after their last day at Hogwarts. They had all felt so much hope and anticipation for their lives to come, unaware then of how closely death had been hovering over them.

He gripped the picture with such force that his fingers nearly went through it, his eyes resting on the still-grinning face of James Potter. “I promise,” he said aloud through gritted teeth, “I swear to you, I will look out for Harry. If I have to barter with Death to exchange his soul for mine, I will do it.”

Remus glanced at each and every one of the young faces in the photograph, to the torn space where he knew Peter had been, and felt a rush of anger overtake his senses. A dark fate had sealed its icy grip on his friends. One had sold himself into murder and betrayal. The other two had met their end at the tip of a wand.

Remus closed his eyes. He would wait for his chance to come face to face with the dark forces that carried away his friends, and if he was lucky, meet their same fate.

- December 7, 2006 (July 11, 2007)

(house) top secret

2007-04-03T16:32:36Z

Title: Top Secret
Fandom: House
Characters: Chase, implied Chase/Cameron
Spoilers: Up to 316.
Notes: Follows "Here Comes Emptiness Crashing In".

Chase was unsure when it started to become something more than casual, when it ceased to be an arrangement between colleagues and began to feel like something else. Something more. But how little it mattered now. Now that he had let his carefully suppressed emotions get in the way.

That was not to say that it was no longer about the sex. The sex was great. As had been evident in their hasty romp during Cameron’s stint with narcotics, their sexual appetites were completely in synch. Once or twice a week had quickly turned into once or twice a day. The tiniest hint of flesh, a flash of an ankle, and Chase would be shifting anxiously in his skin. A gleam in her eye meant that it was time to find a linen closet or make for an early lunch. Skin touching skin. Tongue to mouth. Tousled hair, knees and elbows pointing toward the ceiling. But there was also that other look, the one that told him it was going to be a long day and an even longer night, and he would wonder why lately the decision usually rested on her shoulders. Granted, she had approached him first and out of nowhere. He did not and would not pretend that it had not come as a surprise and a bit of an insult when she had so bluntly requested his services. But the shock had immediately disappeared, and he had been only too happy to oblige. But it seemed like it was always her idea, always her giving him the eye while the other stayed fixed on House.

He knew he was being used, but only a fool would complain. It was becoming for him the word he dared not say, the word that would bring all of it to an end. And so he would bite his tongue and taste the blood, swallow it down with his self-respect, put up the walls that surfaced in times of poignant honesty, and get back to work.

(house) betrayal

2007-01-01T06:42:18Z

Title: Betrayal
Fandom: House
Characters: Chase, implied Chase/Cameron
Notes: I wrote this during the interem between seasons two and three while obsessively watching season one again and getting caught up in the Vogler episodes. This was my attempt at understanding Chase's motives towards the end of the first season.

It wasn’t easy at first. In fact, you wondered if you’d even have the courage. Betrayal is not a suit one easily fits into. It is cramped, confined, murderously uncomfortable. For a time. But then you wake up one morning and find the suit is a perfect fit, and you’re left wondering whether it has been tailored to fit you or if it is you that has conformed. You look at your actions and you know somehow the suit has changed you. Betrayal is the name of the game, and the game just got a whole lot easier. You can look them in the eye and not feel the slightest tinge of guilt. You feign surprise at the thought that someone is playing eyes and ears for the new sheriff in town. Even when he learns it is you, there is a smile on your face. You still have your job. Found a way to get him before he gets you. After all, they always do. You are the weak one. You are the one with the least to lose, and somehow that makes it feel like the most. You don’t expect them to understand. You’re supposed to be a saint. So you fake it.

- July, 2006

(house) here comes emptiness crashing in

2006-12-29T23:52:04Z

Title: Here Comes Emptiness Crashing In
Fandom: House
Characters: Chase, implied Chase/Cameron
Summary: Gapfiller, picks up at the end of episode 207.
Notes: Followed by Top Secret.

The sound of the turning deadbolt reverberated off the walls of the silent apartment suite. The darkness of the entry way was all-consuming like an underground crypt, and as Chase made his way down the hallway, he felt as if he were back in the catacombs of the ancient cathedrals he would visit as a child. A flip of a switch, and the memories were gone, lost to the rich furnishings before him that never quite felt like home.

He tossed his bag carelessly onto the leather sofa and headed for the small bar that sat between the twin bay windows. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers outlining the rim of an empty glass that sat overturned as if waiting to be filled. Tie loosened, and a sweep of the hand through his hair, Chase reached for a bottle. Gin. Completely unopened and previously untouched, yet always there, as if it served as a reminder of something tragic. The tonic water was in his hand before he realized it, and as he added the gin into the shallow glass, his eyes burned at the familiar scent. When the liquor finally met his lips, his stomach lurched as if in protest. But then came the calm. The warm and numbing sensation that filled him to his very extremities. He took another drink and winced, brushing his tongue across the inside of his stinging lower lip. Maybe this was not such a fine idea.

He set the gin and tonic down and began to walk away, but then in one quick movement, returned and finished off the drink. Placing the empty glass upside-down on the counter, he turned his back on the bar and moved toward the large windows. With the curtains brushed aside, he could see the edge of the campus through the hazy pre-dawn light. As he stood with his weight against the wall, his eyes focused on the street lamp until it became just a florescent blur and his mind wandered back to the light, the heat, the contact of the night before. Even if he were the type of person to be filled with regret over each and every spontaneous decision, it would not apply to last night. It would not apply to Cameron and the result of months of anticipation. “Why are you so calm?” His eyes wandered back toward the bar. Everybody lies.

- July 14, 2006

(abz) temptation [scrap]

2006-09-28T05:35:51Z

Title: Temptation
Fandom: Altar Boyz
Characters: Luke, Mark

The first time it happened, the thrill of breaking the rules blinded him to the fact that it was wrong. Any repercussions that were sure to follow seemed insignificant. The warmth that flooded his body made him feel feverish, and as if the Earth had tilted on its axis. It left Luke numb and it left him wanting more.

The second time it happened, it was an accident, unplanned, the result of the inability to curb this new appetite. A week of remorse, of sideways glances, and self-reprimanding had left him certain that he would never again succumb to that temptation. His certainty lasted only one week…

The cabinet which housed the television loomed in front of him like the shadow of death. His eyes held fast to the varnished woodwork. Not at the shelf where the television resided, but rather at the space he knew sheltered the mini-bar. Luke’s hand found his mouth and began to chew at his worn thumb nail.

Rising up from his seat on the bed, he reached out with his other hand, his fingers barely brushing against the grooved edge of the door before he retracted his hand. He turned away for a moment, clenching both fists in frustration. His eyes closed and his body shifted forward until his forehead rested upon the cool surface of the wooden cabinet.

His mind raced, flashing images that made goose bumps form on his arms and legs, and a feeling he would not allow himself to acknowledge again creep back into his stomach. He squeezed his closed eyes tighter and clenched his jaw, before crouching down to open the door and pull the tab to release the lock on the small refrigerator. The cool air from inside brushed past his warm cheeks as he peered inside, grabbing a handful of the tiny bottles and recoiling quickly, sinking back onto the bed.

The clear liquid burned the back of his throat and stung at the corners of his eyes, and yet Luke set the empty bottle on the night stand beside him and reached for another and another. But the thoughts were still there. He had opened up the floodgate and now they came pouring into his mind like the liquor he kept pouring into his mouth.

A knock shattered the silence he had wrapped around himself like a blanket, and his narrowed eyes peered through the sporadic slivers of lamp light that escaped from beneath his hastily-thrown jacket. The would-be intruder knocked a second time, more softly, and Luke found himself making his way toward the door. He pulled it open cautiously, the luminosity from the hall impairing his vision briefly so that all that stood before him was a dark shadow. As his eyes readjusted themselves, the figure in front of him began to come into focus. Something within him buckled and he unintentionally staggered backwards into the room. The visitor took that as an invitation to come inside, brushing past Luke ever so slowly as he entered. His blue eyes took in the still-open mini bar and the empty bottles on the nightstand and quickly put two and two together. He turned to look at his friend who was still staggered up against the wall.

“Luke?” Mark’s voice was hushed and sweet and he crept slowly toward Luke, the way one might approach a startled horse. “Luke?” He tried again, louder this time, but just as cautious.

Luke raised his head slowly so that his eyes were looking directly into Mark’s blue ones. Mark reached out his hand as if he would cup Luke’s cheek, but when Luke turned his head away, Mark’s hand stayed frozen in midair. His brows furrowed together and he began to take a step back when Luke’s head quickly turned back to face him. Mark opened his mouth to speak, but found it difficult now that Luke’s mouth was suddenly pressed up against his own. Luke reached up to grab Mark’s still-suspended hand and brought it down with his own as he wrapped his arm around Mark’s hip, forcing Mark’s body to press into his own. … …

- June 6, 2006

(abz) epiphany

2006-09-28T05:35:40Z

Title: Epiphany
Fandom: Altar Boyz
Characters: Matthew, Mark, Luke, Juan, Abraham

epiphany (n.) a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization

Even from the back of the van, Mark could hear Luke insisting that he should be the one to drive and Abraham attempting to retain his patience, while Juan marveled at a sign boasting the best baby back ribs in New Jersey. He smiled to himself and sank further back into his seat, shifting in the seat belt so that the strap was behind him. He glanced at Matthew beside him from the corner of his eye. He was adamantly reading a dog-eared page of The Purpose-Driven Life, his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his lips moving soundlessly as he read. Mark turned his head away and his focus fell onto the racing white line on the road outside his window. The monotony of the moving lines and the stress of the day’s exertions took their toll, and he surrendered to his heavy eyelids.

It was not the jolt of the van doors slamming shut that woke him, but rather the swaying motion that resulted from Luke plowing into the side of the van. Mark’s eyes flew open to see Abe on the other side of the window with the gas pump in his hand, shaking his head as Luke picked himself up off the ground. He could hear the sound of Juan’s laughter coming from outside, and he grinned to himself, the kind that warmed his cheeks and made him forget that he had ever been without friends.

He settled back into his seat, unbuckling the seat belt that had been so tightly clamped across his lap. Glancing at the space next to him, the color drained from his cheeks slightly as he observed his band mate beside him, head nodding in sleep. Mark watched him in silence, the familiarity of his face such that he knew it by heart. The strong, leader façade that he had grown used to seeing on his friend’s face had vanished, Mark had watched it melt away on a stage in New York. And yet, this was how he remembered Matthew the most, in those few stolen moments. He saw the face that he had clamped eyes on that day in the street years ago, the face of God, he had foolishly thought then. Matthew had always been uncomfortable in his role as savior, but for Mark, it represented the defining moment in his life. Like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, Matthew had been the bolt of lightening that struck the truth into him, spiritually and personally. He was the one to let Mark know that he was not alone.

Matthew’s shoulders shrugged slightly, and his eyes fluttered open. Mark was caught off guard and he smiled bashfully, brushing the hair out of his eyes with the tips of his fingers and looked away for a moment. A grin tugged at the corners of Matthew’s mouth, and he disguised it with a yawn, reaching out to gently ruffle Mark’s hair before scratching his chest and glancing out the window. Mark followed his gaze across the parking lot and into the convenience store. He could see the outlines of Juan and Abraham at the register and the top of Luke’s cap-covered head from behind an aisle of snack foods. Matthew pulled his cell phone out from the drink holder beside him and flipped it open. An iridescent blue light flooded the features of his face before he quickly shut the phone and the two of them were left alone in the shadowed darkness created by the overhang outside.

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them, and Mark sighed softly and began to trace the patterned upholstery on the seat in front of him with his index finger. He was very much aware of the fact that Matthew had spoken very little since their show last night when Sony had insisted they return home to Ohio in a cheap rental van. Luke, Juan, and himself had welcomed the van with a laugh, while Abe and Matthew had shared a solemn look, one that Mark was unable to decipher. He was surprised to find that he was not at all shaken up from the night’s drama. He could recall how Abraham’s words had cleared a fog that had seemingly been blinding him from maintaining his true path, but he had to believe that that was what was supposed to happen. Everything happens for a reason. Isn’t that what people were always telling him? Matthew cleared his throat as if he would speak and Mark turned his head to look back at his friend’s troubled face and wondered if maybe it was not that simple.

Matthew’s eyes met Mark’s at last and his lips formed a small frown. “I’m... sorry—” he began to say. His voice was hushed and raspy. Mark cocked his head to the side, inquisitively arching his eyebrows, but said nothing. Internal struggle was a cruel circumstance that Mark understood too well. It had been his experience that many people in the world were going to hate you, whether for your beliefs or for who you are. But only the hatred for yourself and the retched imbalance it places upon your spiritual and emotional equilibrium is ten thousand times worse than any amount of harsh words or Nair. As Mark looked over at Matthew, he felt as if he could almost see the weight of his shame resting on his shoulders, and for a moment, Mark thought he saw a glimpse of his twelve-year-old self in his leader. The image both frightened him and encouraged him at the same time. Matthew’s eyes narrowed slightly and one brow raised as if he knew what his younger friend had been thinking.

“I’ve never been at a crossroads before… I have always known where I was going and never had to second guess it.” He paused for a very brief moment and his brows furrowed together. “My first real test of faith, and I have failed it miserably.” Mark sat there motionless as Matthew continued to speak, long, winded sentences that fell out of his mouth as if they had been teetering there on the tip of his tongue for days. He spoke of betraying his friends, but the tone in his voice suggested that he felt he had betrayed himself as well.

Mark felt a twinge of guilt for not feeling such passionate anger toward himself, or even at Matthew for what he had almost done. Perhaps it was because his solo deal confession that night had not come as a surprise, though an overheard phone conversation several weeks before had. But even then, it had seemed like the right thing to do. Because it was Matthew. Somehow that fact had made it all seem okay. He knew now that he was wrong. But looking into Matthew’s troubled eyes, he thought that maybe things really were far simpler than what his worried friend was clinging to. He chose his words carefully. "If it weren't for Judas, Christ would never have died for our sins, right? So in a certain way, Judas did the right thing, didn't he?"

Matthew blinked and then shook his head, a laugh escaping his lips. “That’s the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

Mark grinned and sighed heavily. “You of all people should realize, Matthew, everything happens for a reason. Good or bad, it’s all part of God’s plan. My childhood was a living nightmare, but everyday I am grateful for those Episcopalian thugs. Without their torments and ridicule, you would never have been there to save me. Heaven knows where I would be without you.” He paused for a moment and cast his eyes toward the back of the seat in front of him, his cheeks blushing a rosy shade of pink. “I just meant that only out of darkness can there be light. And you may think that you have strayed from your path, but maybe you’ve really just hit a poorly illuminated section.”

Matthew did not say a word in response, but let a small smile inch onto his face. He bowed his head slightly and placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder, leaning forward as if he would whisper a secret into his ear, but instead pulled Mark into a tight embrace. It was Matthew who pulled away moments later, and when he did, Mark noticed that the familiarity he had always clung to in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by something different, almost as if his eyes had turned a lighter shade of brown, and he thought he could see something that resembled pride hidden inside. Matthew opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the opening of the van doors. Any moment that might have been shared between the two of them vanished, and it was with a somewhat heavy heart that Mark looked away as Matthew retracted his arms from their embrace.

Three bodies hopped inside and the ambience of the van changed dramatically. Juan dodged a bag of potato chips as it whizzed past his head, landing with a smack on the empty space that had formed between the two of them. Mark put on a smile for Luke, who had draped his body over the passenger’s seat like a blanket and was grinning broadly at the occupants of the back seat. Abe reached over and tugged forcefully on the back of his shirt, and Luke disappeared behind the seat muttering something about Matthew and Clay Aiken before Abe burst out laughing and started the van. The warm sensation quickly made its way back to Mark’s cheeks, and he found that his smile had faded into a genuine one. Grabbing the bag of chips, he pulled it open and took a chip for himself before turning to offer one to Matthew. His friend was wearing a smile that matched his own, and as his hand reached into the bag, Mark realized that he had never felt like part of a family more than he did at that very moment.

- February 21, 2006

(abz) contrast [Matthew]

2006-09-28T05:35:29Z

Title: Contrast [Matthew]
Fandom: Altar Boyz
Characters: Matthew, implied Matthew/Mark
Notes: This is one of two incomplete answers for a challenge at crucifunktion that were never submitted.

contrast (n.) bring out differences; set in opposition for purpose of comparing; a striking difference.

Matthew pulled the door shut behind him and leaned against it, still clutching the door knob. His vision began to blur and the hallway around him spin. He let out a long, hitched breath and gasped for another, realizing that he had been holding his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he did, short, choppy images played in his head like a movie: long fingers tracing pale skin; blue eyes affixed on his own; deep, wet kisses; skin touching skin. Matthew's eyes fluttered open and then closed again, as if he could will the images from his mind.

A piercing ring interrupted the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. He reached up and brushed aside the hair that clung to his damp forehead, then retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. "No, Sarah. I'm coming. I just got a little side-tracked." He pushed himself away from the door and began walking down the hallway. As he reached the stairwell, he paused, glancing over his shoulder once at the door he had just left. With a guilty shake of his head, he took a deep breath and walked away.

- October/November, 2005

(abz) contrast [Juan]

2006-09-28T05:35:20Z

Title: Contrast [Juan]
Fandom: Altar Boyz
Characters: Juan, Matthew, Mark, Luke, Abraham
Notes: This is one of two incomplete answers for a challenge at crucifunktion that were never submitted.

contrast (n.) bring out differences; set in opposition for purpose of comparing; a striking difference.

It was not as if he had grown accustomed to it. When you are without a thing for the entire span of your life, you learn to live with your loss. That did not mean you had accepted it, however. And this year was different. This year he knew the day would not be spent dreaming that they might be out there celebrating the holiday, an empty chair left at the table for the son they hoped might one day find them. This year he would not imagine finding them at last and sitting down at their table, finally being able to grasp what it was like to be surrounded by family on Christmas.

Juan looked up from the sink and into the mirror. Water he had just splashed on himself dripped from his face like tears, and he shook his head. Perhaps it had not been the wisest of decisions to turn down Matthew's offer to spend Christmas with him and his family. A crash from the floor below startled him out of his thoughts, his eyes widening.

Slinking against the wall as he crept down the stairs, Juan clutched the plunger he had grabbed at the last minute, holding it like a baseball bat and prepared to strike. He was not, however, prepared for the sight that met his eyes as he peered around the corner.

A table had been prepared in his living room, covered with the most magnificent amount of food he had ever seen. Seated around it were the smiling faces of his friends. The plunger fell from his hands as he stumbled into the room, speechless. Matthew leaned over and pulled out the empty chair next to him and beckoned for Juan to sit down. "Merry Christmas, Juan."

"Feliz Navidad," Mark chimed in.

Once seated at the table, he could hardly breathe. He looked around at Luke, Abraham, Matthew and Mark and his heart soared. This is what family felt like.

- October/November, 2005

(abz) faith

2006-09-28T05:35:07Z

Title: Faith
Fandom: Altar Boyz
Characters: Matthew, Mark, Luke
Notes: Written by goodtimenation and myself. Oddly enough, this story has a cast: Scott Porter as Matthew and Kevin Kern as Mark.

“Why are we doing this again?” He asked, struggling to keep up with his older friend’s longer strides.

“You need to look like you can defend yourself, Mark. I won’t always be there to protect you, you know. Of course, I don’t want it getting to the point where you actually have to defend yourself... I won’t encourage physical violence. But I have faith that you can do this.” Matthew glanced over his shoulder, and feeling a slight pang of guilt at noticing that Mark was having problems keeping up, slowed his pace a little.

Mark finally found himself beside Matthew, a hand coming to rest on his chest as he gave his friend a very grateful look for the change of pace. “Okay.” He smiled brightly, brushing his brown curls out of his eyes.

They turned a corner, Matthew taking his strides as normal, Mark not noticing the slight hop in his step.

“Oooh! I’ve never been here before,” Mark exclaimed. His eyes went wide at the sight of the large building in front of them, the letters Y-M-C-A plastered in bright red across the side. Almost as if by second nature, he stopped in his tracks and immediately broke out into song and dance.

“Mark.” Matthew turned at the front of the building, ready to open the door.

“Young man, there’s a place you can go. I said, young man, when you’re short on your dough…”

“Mark!”

“You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find many ways to have a good time. Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun; it’s fun to stay at the Y-M…”

“MARK!”

“…c-a.” Mark looked at Matthew, his voice sadly trailing off. After a moment of realization in which he noticed people were staring, he quickly lowered his gaze and hurried toward Matthew and through the doors. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he went past.

“Hey, hey.” Matthew reached out and grabbed Mark’s arm gently, giving his hair a bit of a ruffle with his free hand. “It’s okay, little man. Just…”

“What?” Mark’s face fell a little.

“Nothing. Nevermind.” He smiled and gestured toward the locker rooms at the end of the hall. “Down there.” Matthew let go of Mark’s arm, much to Mark’s silent dismay, and led the way to the door at the end of the hall. Just as his hand was about to push on it, the door swung open and Luke came wandering out, headphones over the top of his sideways baseball hat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. Luke stopped for a second when he noticed Matthew and Mark, and gave a half-grin.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Mark chimed in last.

Matthew and Mark watched Luke disappear down the hall and looked at each other, both shrugging a little as they made their way into the empty locker room. Matthew dropped his black Nike bag on one of the benches and unzipped it, Mark quickly following suit with his own pink Nike bag.

After disappearing into separate areas of the room, they returned to their things a few moments later to lock them up. Matthew froze, staring at Mark for a moment, his eyebrow raising up slightly at the sight before him.

“Um… what are those?”

Mark cocked his head to the side in confusion and then glanced down at the leg warmers hiding his ankles and calves. “Those?” When Matthew nodded, he blushed a little, toying with the hem of his shirt. “Th- they’re vintage!” He turned a little, completely mortified by his own words and side-glanced at Matthew. “Or… well… that’s… uh.” Mark blushed again and quickly slipped the leg warmers off, shoving them back into his bag before tugging his sneakers back on.

Deciding not to comment further, Matthew nodded his head toward the door and made his way out into the hallway, as Mark quickly gave himself a once over in the mirror. The knowledge that soon he would no longer look like the skinny boy he saw in his reflection suddenly hit him, and he silently followed Matthew out to the exercise equipment.

(One Year Later)

It was late – well, later than Mark normally liked to be out – and he was alone and completely aware of the fact that he was keeping Matthew waiting. This obviously called for some brisk speed walking toward his home, especially considering the sun was nearly down.

He tugged the blue jacket he was wearing closer to his frame, trying to avoid the chilling bite of the October wind. Just as he rounded the corner to his street, a pair of scrawny, nearly fifteen year old boys appeared as if out of thin air. Mark eyed them, feeling his heart drop into the pit of his stomach as he realized who they were – boys he hadn’t seen in nearly three years.

“Haha, look here. It’s whatshisface. That little fairy.”

“Long time, no see.”

“Have you got a razor? I’ve missed this.”

Mark felt himself flush, and when he tried to get past them without further interrogation, one of the boys grabbed him roughly around the wrist and pulled him down to the ground face first. Mark let out a soft whimper of pain as his hands scraped against the cement. Someone knelt on his back, grabbing his jacket by the collar and jerking it from his arms and shoulders.

Suddenly he felt himself being rolled over and winced. The situation of what was happening was all-too-familiar and memories came rushing back to him as if the boys had never ceased to torment him. Fighting the urge to cry out, he let his eyes wander past their hateful faces and caught sight of the stars twinkling against the darkening sky. The memory of when Matthew had saved him from these very same boys came back to him in a sudden rush, and without thinking, he roughly shoved the boy closest to him and scrambled to his feet.

“Oooh, tough… guy…”

The boy’s voice trailed off as Mark-- exceedingly grateful for the growth spurt he’d had a few months back-- stood to his full height, the definition of his muscular arms and broad shoulders visible against the tight t-shirt he was wearing.

Mark stood there for a moment, at a loss for the right words to further intimidate the boys. As if his prayer was answered, Mark puffed out his chest a little and forced his voice as deep as it would go. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems as if the two of you are at a severe disadvantage.” His head fell to the side slightly, his eyes never leaving the boys, and he took a step forward as his arms crossed over his chest. “Am I wrong?”

The boys were momentarily frozen like deer-in-the-headlights before throwing a quick glance over Mark’s shoulder. One shook his head quickly and grabbed his friend, dragging him down the street and away from Mark who stood there proudly, oblivious to the fact that Matthew had been silently approaching from behind.

When Matthew’s hand come to rest on Mark’s shoulder, he jumped a little out of surprise. “Oh! You didn’t see, did you? I just scared off those thugs! And all on my own! You were right, Matt.”

“Right? About what?”

Mark swept his jacket up off the ground and slipped it back on, hooking the zipper in place and sliding it up so the wind was once again off of him.

“You said you had faith that I could do this, and I did. So you were right.”

Matthew grinned broadly and gave Mark’s shoulder a squeeze, his free hand lifting to ruffle his hair in the playful manner he always did. “Good job, litt-…” He chuckled as he sized up his friend. “Good job, Mark. I’m really proud of you.”

Mark’s face lit up. Suddenly, he remembered that he’d been on his way back to his house – where Matthew was supposed to be – and gasped a bit. “Oh! We should probably get back to my house. My mother is probably worried sick! Though does she have the cookies ready? I could really use one right now.”

Matthew laughed, pulling a folded up napkin out of his pocket. “Here.”

Mark took it and unfolded the paper, nearly squealing in delight at the sight of two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. “Ah! Thank you, Matt.” He grinned, breaking one of the cookies in two and chewing happily on one part, offering the other to his friend.

Each savored the taste of their cookie as they made their way down the street back towards Mark’s house, and both glanced over his shoulder quickly at the spot where the night’s events had just unfurled - Mark perfectly content with how things had turned out and Matthew not saying a word otherwise.

- October 17, 2005

(bbm) walk away

2006-09-28T05:35:03Z

Title: Walk Away
Fandom: Brokeback Mountain
Characters: Jack, Randall Malone

And it’s so hard to do and so easy to say.
But sometimes, sometimes you just have to walk away...
- Ben Harper

Sunlight streamed through a crack in the drawn curtains and into Jack’s closed eyes. He squeezed them shut tighter and turned his head, but the light followed as if it had a vendetta against him. He cringed and opened his eyes, blinking into the malicious sunlight. An arm was draped across his chest, the fingers of the small hand digging into his skin as if they were afraid Jack might slip away in the night. He closed his eyes again and imagined instead that they belonged to big nicked hands, reaching out because they needed to feel him there. The thought brought warmth to his cheeks and caused him to stir below the waist. But rather than wake the sleeping figure beside him, Jack slipped out of his grasp, his bare feet swinging over the edge of the bed until they rested on the cool and dingy wooden floor.

He rose and pulled the curtains shut tight, closing the gap and leaving the room in shadowy darkness. He felt around for his clothing at the end of the bed where it had been hastily discarded the night before. Sliding into his denims, he made his way into the bathroom and shut the door soundlessly behind him. He turned on the faucet and watched the water flow freely from the tap before dipping cupped hands beneath it and catching a handful. He reached up and splashed the cool water onto his face, his eyes avoiding the mirror as he dropped his head back and let the water drip onto his bare shoulders and chest. He brought his head forward again, his eyes catching his reflection. A youthful face stared back at him, worn by the wind and sun. Jack blinked and moved closer to the mirror as his reflection was pulled back into the body of another man, enclosing him in an embrace. For a moment, he could almost feel the weight of those thick arms enveloping him and hear his raspy drawl sigh into his ear.

And then there was nothing, and Jack found himself standing alone in the empty bathroom with a name on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it along with his grief and stared hard at his reflection, unwilling to recognize the grave and dismal face that peered back at him. Turning off the running water, he heard the sounds of someone stirring in the next room, and he reached up quickly to wipe away the teardrops that were threatening to brim over his eyes. The door beside him opened at a snail’s pace and he backed further into the bathroom as a soft-featured face peered inside. He put on a bit of a smile, the crease in his brow betraying his woe, but his companion did not, or pretended not to, notice. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and comforting, and Jack allowed himself to be coaxed out of the bathroom like a startled horse.

They both sat down onto the messed bed and Jack allowed his eyes to wander over Randall’s bare skin, smooth and covered with a thin layer of hair that reminded him of down. His wandering eyes inspired Randall to speak, short and broken sentences laden with excitement, adoration, and something else. He spoke of the conversation from the night before, of offering to give up everything—his job, his wife, his good name—to go away with him, to Lightning Flats, to wherever he wanted to be. The words had stopped Jack’s heart in his chest. Words he had heard so often in his dreams, but in the deep and tragic voice of Ennis. Ennis who held Jack’s heart in his own coarse hands, who had been his destination for nearly twenty years. And who had denied his efforts to put an end to the unceasing loneliness and the hunger for the eternity of that first summer on Brokeback Mountain.

Now, as the breath of another’s intimacy heated the bare skin of his shoulder, Jack could see Ennis’s truck disappearing around the bend after their last goodbye months ago. He could feel the heaviness in the air, hear the echo of their harsh words reverberating off the mountains, and recall the sickness in his stomach as he came to the realization that he knew this would be the last time. The last time he would lose another part of himself as he watched Ennis leave him behind. And perhaps he had nothing more to give. He was a hollow man, every bit of what was once inside him clinging to someone he could never have and an idea that could never come to fruition.

Escaping from his thoughts, Jack noticed that Randall had silenced and was looking meditatively across the room, having grown accustomed to Jack’s distant nature. A heavy sigh sent a numbness throughout his body, and Jack lowered his hand to where the other man’s rested on the bed beside him. Randall’s soft eyes poured into Jack’s, and he leaned forward as if he would kiss him, but Jack turned his head to the side as he always did and Randall’s mouth trailed slowly down his neck. Jack closed his eyes, his tongue wetting his lips, and allowed his mind to wander back to blue skies, the smell of campfire, and Brokeback Mountain.

- February 13, 2006

(bbm) just one moment more

2006-09-28T05:34:44Z

Title: Just One Moment More
Fandom: Brokeback Mountain
Characters: Ennis, Jack

Hold me, even though I know you're leaving...
Let me have you just one moment more...
- Mindy Smith

The wind whistled through a crack in the only barrier between the warmth inside and the bitter Wyoming cold. Ennis refused to open his eyes. Jack Twist had been in his dreams, and he did not want the wind to blow the image from his head or freeze the warmth he had awoken to. His mind flooded with memories and imaginings, mingling together like two adjoining springs until what was real and what was merely a dream were indistinguishable— the glint of sunlight that flickered in his eyes as he rode beside him; the way his calloused hands felt against his body; the smell of his sweat, musky and dry, like a gravel road and a fourteen hour drive. He could live off those memories for days, until their heat began to burn them away and he was left with the chill of the shadow cast over him by Brokeback Mountain.

And Ennis wishes during those times that he had never walked through Joe Aguirre’s door. Until another postcard arrives in that scrawling handwriting and with it, the promise of release from the unending torture that time and distance inflicted upon him. But the relief was only temporary. Whereas time seemed at a standstill in the months that they were apart, it flew by in the blink of an eye in the moments they were together. There was never enough time. Never as much as that first summer, when nights went on for days and feelings ran wild like the wind.

His breathing became hitched in his throat, and Ennis reached up to rub his eyes before they started to water. After a moment, he allowed them open, and as he took in his surroundings, he felt foolish. A ceiling of blue fluttered against the wind and the sound of water he mistook for a memory was in fact the river just outside the tent. And there beside him lay Jack, his face skewed into a mournful frown as he slept. His hand hovered over Jack’s face for a moment as if he would caress it, but instead he lowered his arm to envelop Jack in a fervent embrace. A gust of wind howled against the walls of the tent. The river flowed its course outside. And Ennis clutched onto Jack and prayed for time to stop.

As he drove away, Ennis kept his eye locked on the side mirror, watching as Jack grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared around the bend. His body operated the truck, while his mind wandered, still shaken by the gravity of what had taken place minutes before. Everything had happened, and yet nothing had been resolved. In that one moment had been the culmination of nearly twenty years of anguish and emotion, separation and reunion. And Ennis had suceeded only in exposing that which he struggled to fight, the feelings that made him both love and hate Jack all at once.

The reflection of the mountains loomed in the rearview mirror, and the more distance he put between himself and that place, the more it felt as if a knife were being driven through his chest. He steered the truck off the road and climbed out of the cab. His breathing came in sharp, heaving gasps as he stood hunched over the fresh summer grass at the base of the mountains. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and Ennis coughed through gritted teeth and clenched fists which he plunged into the ground at his feet.

If you can’t fix it, you’ve got to stand it. Simple words, easy to say, but damned near impossible to live by. A cool wind swept down from the mountains and pushed Ennis’s worn hat from his head. He snatched it from the air and rose to his feet, his knees cracking as he stood, and the tip of his thumb quickly extinguishing a tear that had dared to fall from his eye. Back behind the wheel of his truck, he took a deep breath and released the brake, returning to the finality of the road. He did not look back once.

- February 13, 2006

(les mis) empty chairs at empty tables

2006-09-28T05:34:21Z

Title: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
Fandom: Les Miserables
Characters: Marius, Cosette

The tavern was nigh on dark now, no life stirring within its walls, the stillness serving as an aide memoire to the empty sacrifice laid down at its doorstep. A motionless figure sat bent over a corner table, the small candle below him flickering in its last moments. His heart beat, and the loneliness and defeat that hung in the air passed through his lungs, but Marius had ceased to live since that night.

The weathered building settled, cracking like gunfire, and he trembled, the blanket that hung round his shoulders slinking to the dusty floor. He raised his eyes slowly, the glisten of tears that would not fall reflecting in the faint illumination of the dying candlelight. He stared across the vacant tavern in remorseful reflection, the nearly-mended wound in his shoulder throbbing mercilessly. Shouts of revolution and freedom reverberated off the silence. Youthful faces full of resolve flashed like shadows on the walls. An accusatory finger pointed into his chest, condemning his very breath, and Marius peered down to find that it was his own. He got to his feet as the memory of his departed friends encircled him like ghosts, and he closed his eyes, the grief in his heart brimming over. He took short, stilted breaths that tasted of the alcohol that had been his only nourishment for days and brought his arms across his chest in a self-embrace.

When the sound of faint footsteps echoed in his ears, Marius blinked open his eyes to find himself in shadowy darkness. A string of thick black smoke trailed from the now-extinguished candle, visible in the splinter of moonlight that shone through the open door. The silhouette of a woman stood in the middle of the room and for a moment, his heart leapt into his throat. Her smile flashed in his mind and her name appeared on his tongue. ‘ponine. But the figure stepped out of the moonlight to reveal herself and at once Marius felt the warmth of freshly spilt blood on his fingertips. His body shook as he looked down at his hands, unable to grasp how it came to pass that they had been the death bed of dear, loyal Eponine.

He felt the heat of the blanket being draped over his shoulders once more and looked up through glistening eyes to see the solemn face of Cosette beside him. She neither spoke nor brushed away the tears that had finally begun to stream down his pallid face. Instead, she placed a soft hand across his back and slowly led him to the door. She allowed Marius one backward glance into the tavern, past the empty chairs at empty tables, before she led him away.

- December 21, 2005