(no subject)

[in_the_blue]

I got... kind of sentimental and wrote a Lost fic. It even convinced me put up a new prompt at 815survivors, so I might link it there too.

It's all about the survivors. Isn't it always?

Spoilers, naturally.



To an Isle in the Water
--William Butler Yeats, 1889

Shy one, shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
Pensively apart.

She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.

She carries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;

And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly

I. Richard      

There were days when he missed it, but not so often as he'd thought he might at first when everything was new again, the tinge of mortality a treat instead of a burden. He'd moved in this world many times before, but not in this way for centuries. Never with aches and pains, bumps and bruises. The one thing that had always remained a constant for him was his heart and now, when he looked into the mirror to see that the one gray hair had multiplied then multiplied again, he was finally satisfied. Eventually, this body he'd worn as both shelter and deception for so long would break down and once that happened, he would be at peace. Maybe he would even find Isabella again. Not as she'd appeared to him on the island, but the way she'd been at first, before she was ill: vibrant, loving, and so beautiful. It was funny, he thought, how a love like that could linger for hundreds of years.

At least now he wouldn't have to wait centuries to find out how it would end. Already, the days flew by like the blink of an eye. After all was said and done, he found he didn't miss Jacob.

II. Frank      

In the night he'd wake up in a cold sweat to the sound of the plane's nose crashing through the jungle, screeching to a halt on a surface that was nothing like a runway. Other nights he'd swear he was being hit right in the gut with a wall of water and know that this time he would never make it to the surface, never in a million years. After coming home knew he wasn't going to fly any more: time for a new career. Looking out from his deck on the little house in Key West he could still see the ocean (which was good) and a lot of boats searching for that elusive green flash (which was better). Personally, he was all done with flashes of any kind and on those days when the water was too much to look at he'd get in his car and drive east, bridge to island to bridge to island on Highway 1, knowing that at the end, at Key Biscayne, there would be so much development and so many buildings that it would rip that feeling of isolation via water right the hell out of his soul for another day or another week or another month. The drive back west was never as desperate as the drive there.

Maybe he'd try his hand at treasure hunting. His life was, after all, supposedly charmed: that's what they told him. Try telling that to his nightmares.

III. Miles      

It only took him about two weeks to realize the voices had gone silent. To prove it he did that thing supposedly brave teenagers always dare each other to do: he went to a graveyard at night without a flashlight, picked a populated area thick with tombstones and overgrown with stereotypically menacing branches, and listened. They'd spoken to him in the past, hints and temptations and whispers, told him disjointed but somehow important secrets like no, the dog really ate it or don't shoot me, mom or fucker deserved it or that hurts, it hurts too much and maybe it was selfish of him but those voices had always been company. They'd always meant more to him than he'd let on. He'd get flashes of imagery too: someone being mugged and beaten, or looking down at their arm as the needle went in, or letting the effort of moving that hidden brick into place steal their last breath. They served as company and comfort because face it, he'd never been the world's most popular guy. Too abrasive for mortals, the spirits didn't care. They didn't interact with him. He was always free to tell them they'd died a stupid and pointless death and they never talked back.

The silence now was like a sucker punch to the gut. What was he supposed to do, lead treks through the tropical jungle? L.A. beckoned like a lighthouse and it was the only thing he really knew, but it was full of frauds, self-proclaimed ghostbusters. And his own moral sense of wrong and right was something he questioned on a daily basis now. The last time he hadn't been a fake was on that island, stepping over Alex's grave. And now?

At least he knew how to tell a good story. No matter what, that douche was still their dad or mom or brother or sister, their aunt or uncle or boyfriend or girlfriend, and people still paid handsomely to have someone else tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.

IV. Claire      

Aaron was like a stranger to her. It was like Mum had put someone else's child in her arms and she'd railed against it: she wasn't ready. She couldn't take him, couldn't hold him, didn't know how to comfort him. He cried for his mommy, as if she hadn't carried him in her belly for nine months, as if she hadn't given birth to him in the middle of rushes and grasses and trees and weeds, as if she hadn't finally given up on untangling her mass of hair that frightened him so much, as if she could somehow keep herself from sleeping by the side of his bed, waking every so often to check that he was still there. It will take time, her mother said, he's been through a lot. They'd already had too much time apart: what did Aaron know of her? What did he remember? Would he ever really feel like her baby again?

She'd already wept herself to sleep most nights for three years; it didn't matter that this took two more years. Aaron was in kindergarten when he drew the picture. Stick figures, nothing more -- he was only five -- but there it was as clear as day. Three yellow-haired people, one very small, one obviously female, the third a man with a beard. Her what have you got, Aaron? was met with one hell of a shock. It's you and me and Charlie, mama. Remember him? I do. Tell me the story?

It was time, and she did, she told him everything in a way that was sanitized for a five-year-old's consumption and when she was done he looked up at her and shrugged and ran off to play with his toy cars (never airplanes). But that night at bathtime his where's uncle Jack now? caught her by surprise.

"He's gone, Aaron." The words almost didn't make it out of her mouth; she stifled back a sob.

"Don't cry, mama. He's with Uncle Charlie."

Aaron didn't mention them -- or the island -- again, and she wasn't going to be the one to bring it up.

V. Sawyer      

Oceanic, not wanting to seem like they weren't taking care of all their survivors, wined and dined him when he got back to L.A. and made him a handy little settlement. It was a handy enough settlement to bring old vultures sniffing around for a piece of the pie and once that happened he knew he wasn't going to be able to stay put. He didn't have as much as men like Hibbs and Gordy were hoping for anyway; he took half the damn money and put it into a fund for Clementine with instructions she couldn't touch it until she either turned eighteen or he changed the terms of the arrangement by court order. It wasn't that he held that much of a grudge against Cass, but she sure as hell held one against him and it was the best way he could think of to protect and care for his daughter when her mama wouldn't let him.

While it might have been true that a tiger don't change its stripes, it was also true that the big cats knew instinctively how to be crafty, how to get around unseen and unnoticed. So when Oceanic's number seven faded from the spotlight by design, it didn't get a whole lot of notice. Old news anyhow; people were bored with the story. All talking about the disappearance of businessman Charles Widmore instead.

Didn't take him more than a year to wind up at her door. The timing was good anyway; things being what they were, paying a visit any time sooner would have been just plain bad form and sunny Jamaica wasn't all that far away. He knew all along there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that even though she couldn't resist getting close, she'd never return to the good old U.S. of A. No, the terms of her probation were violated real good the moment she got on that Ajira flight, and he couldn't say he blamed her one little bit. The day he found her out on the beach, shimmying down from a palm tree with a coconut in her hand, he had to laugh. Some things never changed.

At least she didn't throw the damn coconut at him.

(Love you too, Freckles. Love you too.)

VI. Kate      

"What do you want, James?" That those were the first words out of her mouth surprised even her. A year: it was more than a year since she'd disappeared into that market in Majuro not long after they made it off the only island never to bear a name. She called it Jack's island still and now, looking up at Sawyer brought the old memories back with a vengeance. You run, I con. "Are you here for my money?"

The way he shook his head and dimpled right up into laughter irritated her more than almost anything, but by the time he'd finished weaving the tale about Oceanic settling with him for all the hardship he'd suffered she found herself laughing too and it felt good. It wasn't something she'd ever honestly considered -- meeting up with him again -- and while she was still moderately annoyed he'd been able to find her ("hell, Freckles" -- don't call me that -- "all I had to do was look for all the damn Joanna Millers in the world"), old comforts outweighed new hesitations. A bigger part of her than she'd realized craved familiarity so much she even let him stay.

It wasn't until the third morning they woke up together than he confessed why he'd really come all this way to track her down. For someone who considered herself pretty skilled at the art of craftiness, she found herself surprised all over again.

"You want me to go where with you, James?"

His look plainly begged for her to drop the whole James business and go back to what they both knew, what made them both forget the worst of the bad times, and to call him Sawyer just like she did in the dark of night under the cover of stars and linens. But she was stubborn and refused: this was her world and as long as they were here, they'd live by her rules. He seemed to realize it and played along.

"Well, Kate, I said I want you to go to Seoul with me." Lounging on her hammock looking just like he'd always belonged, the scruff of his beard putting a familiar pang in her midsection, he raised his eyebrows in an expression that was only half question. "Pay a visit to Ji Yeon. I got somethin' to deliver to her grandma and grandpa." Reaching into the duffle bag on the sand, he pulled out a camera. "Found this back before we left. It was Sun's. Thought the little lady ought to have it."

Greedily, she grabbed the camera out of his hands, turned it on, and flipped through the pictures. There were no pictures of Jin, but there was Sun and there was Sun and there was Sun, holding her daughter or laughing or looking surprised, and there was Ji Yeon as an infant and as a toddler and her heart just broke all over again, and for the first time in a year she sobbed uncontrollably and didn't resent it in the least when she felt him kiss her forehead and his arms wrap around her body. For once, James -- Sawyer -- didn't even say a word. For once, he was exactly who she needed.