Title: Sonata
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Daniel; Juliet, Claire, David, Charlotte, Penny (various pairings)
Rating: PG
Summary: Two men in three movements.
Spoilers: Up to 6x08, speculation on some aspects of S6.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: So this is my ultra self-indulgent wishlist for the rest of the season.
----
i. Accelerando
The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, Jack remembers his father always saying, and damned if he wasn't right for once.
There's a last-minute complication in surgery and then a pile of paperwork that never seems to end and a quick shower and parking's a bitch and when he finally arrives in the conservatory's quiet halls David's almost ready to take the stage.
He sees her and slips into a row of seats through polite applause, another student bowing and bustling offstage; Juliet's hair is loose around her shoulders, no business casual, looks more relaxed than usual -- happy (happier) -- no worry or muted strain pinching her expression as he sits, flattening the front of his tie with one hand.
"You made it."
David steps out into a dusty spotlight, suit jacket just a little too big and maroon tie expertly knotted (he remembers Juliet's deft touch, gentle at his throat), and sits, only a moment of hesitation before his fingers crash against the keys.
"He's good."
Jack's eyes stray back to the stage, words hushed. Her gaze never wanders; smile, placid as always, twitches though, grows tighter -- I know.
"He's really good."
This time she turns, shifting in her seat and fixing him with a long, even stare, and he's surprised (though he shouldn't be) that every line and crease and curve of her face is still familiar, that he can still feel the phantom touch of her cheek cupped against his palm.
"I know."
It's you're never around and work shouldn't always come first and he misses you – he hears it, understands. Agrees.
David finishes the song – Chopin; what got him into the conservatory in the first place – with a flourish, rocks forward on the bench on the final note, deep tones reverberating through the auditorium, strung through the air and Jack's on his feet, clapping hard, before anyone else.
(My son, like the words almost feel new.
They shouldn't, he knows.)
Afterwards, outside, sky already softening in dusk and air still warm -- "he's an incredible musician," a man, David's piano teacher, slight and soft-voiced and dark-haired, is saying, patting his son's shoulder, "he's very special."
Jack's barely paying attention, a sudden sweat pricking the back of his dress shirt's collar, that word --special -- almost making him shiver (someone's walking over your grave; his mother's voice, a silly old wives' tale), pulling at his breath, making his stomach flip, nauseous.
There's the slightest crease at the corners of Juliet's eyes. She watches him, carefully, questioning, but fills the silence; thank you, Dr. Faraday. David scuffs the toes of his shoes against the pavement, embarrassed but radiating pride -- his warm, easy smile threads tight around Jack's heart, won't let go, buries itself deep in memories of twisted scowls and apathetic shrugs and whatever, Dads.
Later -- after Daniel (that's what he says to call him, smile so genuine it's almost disarming) politely waves off their dinner invitation with other plans, after they've picked up Claire from her new apartment (freshly painted and furnished and Jack doesn't mind, not for a second, not after his silent childhood, the only toys his, years later and he's still getting used to what the word sister feels like), Aaron too young to sit through any recital, he thinks again about everything, perched on the patio behind Juliet's house and listening to her swear as another hot dog slips through the barbeque grill and into the coals.
He's watching David and Claire toss a battered Frisbee, still a tentative dance between nephew-and-aunt, Aaron tucked into Margo's arms nearby, when Juliet folds herself onto patio steps next to him; a beer gets slotted into one of his hands, glass chilled against his palm.
They sit in silence for a minute.
"Juliet."
Her eyes change colour -- a stormy blue, now -- and her gaze shifts and she already seems to know where this is going by the sound of his voice alone; she's smarter than him, never gave her enough credit for that.
"Do you ever wonder? If maybe – maybe we could have fixed it?"
(The us hangs silent, unsaid -- he'd seen her on the phone earlier, drawn into a kitchen corner and head bowed, hushed tones and I'll call you later, James.)
There's a long slug at her beer, and she's quiet again, picking at one corner of the label already peeling and sweltering in the heat.
"I think we're better like this, Jack."
Better.
(They are -- yes. He is -- maybe.)
She pats his knee and rises, wanders back over to the barbeque, where the thick smell of charcoal's started to rise again, another hamburger too crisp around the edges. David just misses the Frisbee and Claire laughs, darts through the grass to retrieve it.
Better.
He can work with that.
----
ii. Adagio
Daniel's driving when they stop.
They'd been on the way back from her museum gala -- it'll be stuffy, Charlotte had warned, more about rubbing shoulders than academics, not her thing and definitely not his, but there's free champagne and the food's not rubbish -- and they'd passed the conservatory, her tapping one finger against a window darkened by the late-night hour. She's beautiful, even in the dim light thrown from passing streetlamps, even though it almost breaks his heart and he's not sure why.
"Isn't that your school?"
(Penny had teased him, mercilessly, at dinner the night before, grin edging on wicked before pouncing on his mother's comment that he seemed distracted, dear.
"Of course he's distracted." Penny speared another bite of her salad, her waving fork like an exclamation point. "Dan met someone."
Penny -- he'd drawn out her name into a sigh, ducking against his parents' piqued interest. It's only been a couple dates.
Desmond had called then, looking for Charlie's pyjamas, and his mother had bitten back a smile, and come off it, Dan, Penny mumbled, pressing her cellphone against her cheek, you're mad about her already.)
One pleading smile and he's unlocking the side door with his keys, darting past where he know the security guard usually sits, down one shadowed corridor towards the auditorium, Charlotte's heels clicking against the polished linoleum.
(You really want to see -- I mean, it's not that interesting, he'd mumbled, hands splayed upwards in a long-practiced gesture.
Of course it is, she'd shot back, and as long I don't end up trying to hail a cab in some crappy neighbourhood at 3 a.m. this is already better than most dates I've gone on.)
Daniel draws back the curtain, weighted heavy in his hand, clicks on a row of switches; she's slipping off her shoes, dropping them in a pile -- don't want to scuff the stage -- and flexing her toes.
"Oh," he smiles back, bats ropes and cords out of the way, backstage still littered with abandoned score sheets and water bottles from the showcase earlier that night, David's performance still filtering through his brain. "You've spent time in theatres before?"
Light floods the stage, stark white in a sea of black, the pads of her feet leaving the faintest imprints on wood already warmed by the overhead glare -- "I was in ballet, when I was little." Charlotte pulls a face, turns back to watch him trace her steps. "Lasted until I saw the tutus."
His laugh gets swallowed by the empty auditorium's stillness; the wood of the grand piano gleams, glows, and she moves towards it, tugs at his wrist (it's like a spark, her skin against his, familiar like a should be, was, will be again).
"Play something for me?"
It's half-question, half a demand and all gentle humour, Charlotte twisting around to meet his gaze, the folds of her dress brushing against his knees and she's so close; one lock's untangled from the rest of her pinned-up curls and it's a good enough excuse to draw one hand to her cheek -- here's where he would tremble, falter, but not (never) with her -- to brush it back, watch her eyes grow a little wider and maybe it's not just him who feels like this is more of a memory than anything else.
She seems to remember herself after a minute, keeps pulling him towards the piano, slips onto the bench and watches as his fingers hover, just barely, over the keys and then begins, chords and sharps and flats wavering where they wouldn't without her there, shoulder almost grazing his.
The last of the notes strain across the silence; he can't look up at her, not when she's so near, instead memorizing the neat row of black on white.
"Dan." Her voice's a breath, a single exhale. "I mean, I knew you were good, but that -- that was brilliant."
He's not used to the praise, even after so long, gestures at the piano instead. "Thanks. Do you --"
Charlotte laughs, shrugging, picks at one key, the sound plinking softly.
"I can play a mean Heart and Soul."
"It's not so hard." He cups his hand over hers, rounded against the plane of her knuckles, the other finding the small of her back, guides fingers over keys -- a simple string of melody -- and she eases back against him, arm lined along his. "Look at that -- you're a natural."
There's a pause, a silence where she turns just barely to face him, and then he kisses her, finally (finally, there's that word again, though he doesn't understand it), one hand still under his and the other straying to his chest, feels the warmth of it through his shirt, right over his heart -- and she has it, already; wholly, completely, without question.
When she pulls away, it's with a smile.
"Can you teach me something else?" Charlotte peeks at his watch, nudges back the sleeve of his dress shirt, and he can't help but feel that thrill again, that dizzying high at something so tangible, bigger and so much better than just the feel of her touch curled around his shirt's cuff. "Do we have enough time?"
Yes, Daniel thinks, the sudden swell of joy, of relief so much it almost takes his breath away.
We do.
----
iii. Prestissimo
The next Monday they're dropping David off at piano lessons, motor still rumbling at the curb next to the conservatory and Claire curled up in the passenger's seat, thin legs tucked under herself, Aaron under the care of her new boyfriend (who's only three months' sober; Jack stresses the only and Claire rolls her eyes) and his brother, who, she sighs not for the first time, is completely clean and a father himself andit's not exactly easy getting errands done with a newborn, Jack.
David hops out of the truck with a quick goodbye and bounds up the stairs towards his waiting teacher; Claire pushes up her sunglasses, perches them into her mess of blonde hair, peers out the window -- "I know her, that woman. She helped me to the hospital. Well, first she took my cab -- anyway, I'll be right back!"
He's barely asking who? before she slides on her flip flops and jumps to the pavement, trailing behind a dark-haired woman who drifts down the sidewalk (no direction but like she has to keep moving, never stop) through the throngs of students, face mostly obscured but then she turns at Claire's voice and it's all Jack can do to keep his breath steady, even, because he knows her, more than one gaze caught against hers in the airport, handcuffed and with that marshal (that's why she's familiar, amongst all the coincidence, but not how he knows).
The car gets shifted into park and the engine dies, keys clicking off and into his hand and he couldn't say why except he wants (needs) to, that he feels like there's been ghosts haunting every corner, barely seen blurs he can't catch no matter how fast he looks, déjà vu all the time since he landed from Australia weeks before.
Claire waves him over -- easy, bright, like always; the woman beside her fidgets, threads fingers together -- and he steps towards them, weaves through idle students. He thinks of his father's words again -- then a condemnation, almost sneering -- as Claire pulls him closer and David and Daniel wave in goodbye, a mirror image, disappearing inside the school. The other woman squints her eyes against the sun, doesn't offer her name.
I'm Jack, he says instead, extended hand like a bridge, a link. Another stepping stone.
(She's a stranger but that's not quite right and it's not Christian but Juliet he thinks of then, Claire too, Aaron. David.)
His father's voice spirals through his brain again, as the woman takes his hand, tentative at first then strong, grip hard, unapologetic; nice to meet you, Jack.
He smiles.
(That's the thing about paths, he thinks --
-- they always get you somewhere in the end.)