A/N: a missing scene from Jack's time in otherville. reviews always appreciated :)
Juliet sat on her couch, legs tucked under her body and book resting on her knee. It was open, but she wasn't reading the words. Instead she was staring at an old photo, its edges worn, surface slightly crinkled, colour faded from years of light exposure. On the coffee table in front of her sat a half empty glass of red wine. Half empty because she didn't really like wine that much. Still, she would pour a full glass every night and only drink half. Perhaps on some level the fact that she didn't drink it all told her she wasn't really drinking alone. But she told herself it didn't really matter. A lot of things didn't really matter.
The photo sat against the pages of the novel, held in place by her finger tips. The three smiling faces stared back at her and her eyes glazed over. Three faces that seemed so far away. But she kept looking at it, night after night, to remind herself that she had a life before this island, and that someday, somehow, she would have a life after it.
There was a knock on the door and she was immediately pulled from her thoughts. Flipping the book shut, she stood up, slowly running a hand over her hair, messily tied back in some semblance of a ponytail/bun/I'm-not-going-to-think-about-my-appearance. Hand on the doorknob, she pulled the door wide open with a gush of wind.
There stood Jack. She was suddenly very aware that she wasn't wearing a bra.
"Hi," he said, hand on the doorframe, leaning casually. How did he do it so casually?
"Hey," she breathed, hand stretching across her body, some vague attempt to disguise the fact that she was in her pyjamas. Pale blue camisole, white blue and green striped cotton bottoms. Her house was always so warm.
"So, I just realised there's nothing to do on this island," he smirked, the side of his face illuminated by her dull porch light. And that little smile… dimples/teeth/gasp/lust/touch/what-was-my-name-again?
"You're telling me." She managed a grin, stepping back to let him in. He strode by, too close/too far, and the soft wind he blew by with his steps brushed a strand of hair across her face. Did her face redden as he turned back to look at her?
"I'm sorry," he said, stopping himself as he was moving to sit on the couch, "were you about to go to bed?"
"No, no," she waved him off, "I was just reading."
"Okay. Sorry to just drop by -"
"It's fine, really, Jack. Sit down."
He obeyed, sitting back and resting his ankle on his knee. He looked so comfortable. She noticed how he fit there on her couch/room/house/heart/life. No one had ever looked so good on that sofa. She moved and sat beside him, resuming her previous position.
"This what you're reading?" he asked, picking up the book, fingers brushing the wine glass as he reached for the hardback. Old photo poking up over the pages.
She nodded. "I've read practically everything on this island, so it's back to old favourites."
"Carrie, huh? Explains a lot," he turned the book in his hands, hint of playfulness in his eye. Something there. Does Stockholm syndrome still count when the prisoner wilfully enters your home?
She tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips to suppress a smile. "You can't help what you like, Jack."
His fingers flicked on the photo. Her stomach shrunk. He noticed what he'd touched and flipped to the page it marked. No turning back. Here's the part where she loses her mystery.
He picked it up from the pages, other hand still holding the book open, as though what page she was up to mattered. A lot of things didn't really matter.
For a moment he thought the tall and beautiful woman was her – same long blonde curls, same piercing blue eyes, same warm smile – but the photo was old and fading, and the clothes in it dated, and he realised that instead, one of the little girls in her arms was Juliet. She was completely different, yet exactly the same. A broad smile on her face he had never seen before, and a slightly older blonde girl held her hand beside her.
No more hiding, Juliet.
"I was eleven," she said. Jack looked up at her. "When she died. That was taken the summer before."
"Oh," he nodded. He felt like he was intruding. He shouldn't have picked up the book. Too late now. He'd done it/saw it/said it/exposed it/felt it.
"She was beautiful."
"I know," she said, eyes locked on the photo, warm smile itching on her face.
He breathed.
"You look just like her."
Her eyes flicked up to him, soaking up his slightly nervous compliment. They didn't dwell on it.
"She was very kind, and funny," she smiled, lost in her memories, "she would dress us up as fairies – she'd dress up too – and we'd have picnics and go around the neighbourhood just… giving candy to people." She laughed. She forgot where she was.
"She was young, but she didn't tell anybody when she got sick. She… the cancer was too strong in the end. She was 34. I've already outlived her."
Jack touched her hand and all of a sudden she realised where she was and what she'd said and who she was with and oh, how much she'd said, how much she'd said.
"I'm sorry," she apologised, pulling her hand back and touching her hair, "you didn't want to know all that."
"No," he took her hand back, "I like hearing about you."
It was all or nothing. Ben or Jack. Ben/Jack/Ben/Jack/home/Jack/home/Jack/home/home/Ben/home/Jack/Jack/Jack.
"Is that your sister in the photo?" Jack.
She took it from his hand, thumb unconsciously running over Rachel. "Yes."
"Is she on the island too?"
"No," she sighed, "no. I… she's home, in Miami. That's why… that's why I have to get home, Jack, I have to get home to Rachel. She has a little boy I've never even met. I developed the drug that got her pregnant, even after all the chemotherapy, and I've never even met him."
Jack's mind filled in the gaps. She was a lot like him. Maybe even the same. Maybe she filled in his gaps.
"You will," he reassured her, his intrusion now something different… understanding/insight/compassion/right/fitting/perfect/perfect/why-does-this-feel-so-right-don't-I-love-Kate? "We're going to make it home, Juliet. We'll make Ben keep his word. I'm taking you home."
Her eyes softened, head on that little tilt, smile that made him crumble. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
And then he kissed her. Like she was all that really mattered.
She was all that really mattered.