Title: Icarus Abides
Author: Ainsley Hayes
Ship: Jack/Kate
Genre: Angst.
Warning: Character death. Sorry.
Spoilers: General series, season 2.
Summary: The stain of blood isn't one that's easily removed.
Rating: PG-13, for general themes and tone.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. The title is taken from a heartbreaking episode of Farscape.
Author's note: These characters have been pestering me to do something with them for a while now... and this is what happened. This is my first completed fic in about a year and my first Lost fic, so please tell me what you think, good or bad. Thanks so much for reading. Enjoy. P.S. if this fic seems at all familiar to you, it's because I've used the basic format as both an Alias and Farscape fic under the penname neumy. :-)
Prompt: 4. Broken / Fall / Screaming
The stain of blood isn't one that's easily removed. This is a lesson you learn all too well, sitting in the shower of the hatch as scalding hot water pours over your worn and beaten body. You try desperately to get clean, to rid yourself of the dirt and blood that stains your skin.
You feel as though you're hovering over the scene, watching some other woman attempt to clean off the evidence of the tragedy that just occurred. She is trying so hard to wash the blood off of her hands. She's scrubbing, really, and it's painful, but she welcomes the pain, welcomes what she deserves.
You float above all of this, and you know that it can't be you; you are not this weak. You are not susceptible to emotional pain or weakness. You are a fighter, born to be strong and powerful. You are smart enough to know when to run and wise enough to know that it is necessary. It is how you survive; no connections, no questions.
As you watch the woman begin to cry, you realize that those are the things that you were. You were strong and you were powerful and smart and wise.
That is the woman that you were. Not the one you are now.
Now, you are the defeated, broken woman on the floor of the shower, scrubbing your body so hard that your blood is mixing with that which you are trying so futilely to clean off. The image snaps you back to reality, and you are no longer hovering above the scene as a mere spectator; you are living this nightmare, feeling so much anger and hate and pain and despair that you have to fight to keep from screaming. Yes, this is the woman you are now.
And it's all because of him.
You can still feel him all over you. His hands on your body, his lips on yours. You had grown close, so close, in the months since that first desperate kiss you shared in the middle of the jungle. The touch of his bare skin pressed up to yours, the protection and warmth in his embrace. The memories have not escaped you, but now they are coupled with sensations that overwhelm you and render you powerless. Instead of feeling his hands gently caressing you, you feel the desperate grip on your own as he struggles to keep holding on. Instead of his soft lips melding to your skin, you feel his ragged, harsh breaths against your neck. You have never been religious, but now, in your moment of utter desolation, you beg to every god you can think of to make this stop, to give him back to you, just that and nothing else.
You're screaming now, and you can't stop. You think it's because you hear all of those gods that you never believed in saying, "Because I can," every time you ask why he was taken away from you.
A faceless figure runs into the washroom at the sound of your heart wrenching screams. You can't see them; you can't see anything but his face, smiling, laughing, crying... his mockingly peaceful face in death. You want so badly to hate him for leaving you like that, for not being more careful, but you can't. You could never hate him. He made you love, and he loved you. He gave you back the world.
You're too exhausted to struggle against the person trying to dry you off and calm you down. You fall against them, vocal chords dead but your mind screaming louder than before. They get you into the bed, and you cling greedily to his pillow, reveling in his scent, not yet realizing that this is the closest you'll ever get to holding him again.
Eventually, you sob yourself to sleep, letting darkness overtake you as you whisper his name. As you close your eyes you see his face and he's smiling at you. His eyes are bright, and you think your heart might split in two because of how happy he looks. This is how you always want to remember him. And despite everything, you know, deep down, that this is how you always will.
After all, he was the man that gave you everything. He gave you freedom by simply giving himself to you.
You drift off into a deep sleep, and when morning comes, you won't remember if you dreamed. All you will know is that you are here and he is not, and nothing hurts more.
All you will know is that you will not want another morning to come.
end