Title: When the sun goes down.
Rating: PG.
Character: Claire, Shannon, Kate. Mentions of Jack, Boone.
Summary: They said it changes when the sun goes down. And they were right.
N/A: my third fic in English, yay! It's set some days after the crash.They said it changes when the sun goes down. And they were right.
Disclaimer: Lost and its characters do not belong to me.
Reviewing doesn't cause infertility.
Claire tosses and turns, wrapped in a not long enough to cover her prominent tummy airline blanket. The last and odd lights have already disappeared and, as her glance wanders about the beach, she notices everyone is now forming small groups or simply being alone, just like she is. She rolls in the sand one more time and she finds herself missing that British guy –Charlie, she remembers- who introduced himself to her the first night, even if he was cheekily flirting with her. Or maybe he wasn't, but it's been a long, long time since no one actually flirted with her.
She hugs herself, shivering and wondering why the hell the tall and polite –and cute- doctor is not by her side, asking her a bunch of repetitive questions about all the pregnancy thing. Like there was a huge amount of pregnant women between the passengers or something.
A moment later, like she woke up from a dream, she feels the presence of two people not very far from her. One is a woman –the blonde hair (at least it looks blonde in the semi-darkness, but with this lack of light she can't be totally sure) and the skinny back she is showing to the other person lets Claire know that- and the other is a man. She doesn't recall their names but she knows who they are. They'd look like girl and boyfriend if it wasn't for the cold and sarcastic contempt she shows for him.
Shannon has never gone to a summer camp or anything –she's from LA, for God's sake. Posh blonde girls from LA don't go to summer camps. They go to shopping spree in New York City-, and that is one of the main reasons why she's unable to make a fire. She doesn't smoke either –at least, not regularly-, so she doesn't carry a lighter in her purse full of make-up. But she has Boone and, although he hasn't exactly the boy scout look, he can, after ages of rubbing little branches against a log, set a tiny bonfire for his fussy, impulsive stepsister.
She thanks him inwardly, because having crashed on an apparently desert island in the Indian Ocean –or Pacific, whatever. She's never been good in Geography- may seem fine and exotic during the day –with the sea of soft swinging waves matching with the colour of the pure blue sky-, but it doesn't seem anything but frightening after dusk. Still, she hasn't said a word about it, and neither has Boone. She'll just spend the night twisting in place and, in the morning, she'll put on her minuscule bikini, open a random fashion magazine –she hopes she'll be able to find theVogue she bought before getting on the plane, at Sidney's airport- and start working on her tan.
Half an hour later, it's a fact: she can't sleep. She watches back through shoulder at Boone, snoozing peacefully by her side, and then at the rests of the bonfire, just a handful of embers that are about to finally put out. So she takes a look around, fixing her eyes on someone who neither is sleeping, someone who is only about seven meters from her.
Shannon recognizes her as the wary brunette, the one that would be really beautiful if she bothered to put on some make-up and wear clothes that didn't look like they were surplus of the Army.
Kate, snuggled up like a purring cat underneath the dark sky dotted with twinkling stars, closes her eyes and slowly breathes out, feeling relieved. Edward Mars is dead and, with him, the last chance of the rest of the survivors of finding out who she really is.
She's maybe the only person on this island that is not scared. At least, not too much. The marshal has passed away and, very deep inside, she feels kind of sorry for him, for his family and all that stuff, but on the surface she's smiling calmly. She doesn't care about the strange thingin the forest, the monster –or whatever it is- that killed the pilot just a couple of days ago. She doesn't even care about the casualties or the dead.
She just cares about herself these days. And she doesn't care about being incredibly selfish and distrustful because, hell, that's the way she is, she's always been and she'll always be.
She has born to run anyway, so let's forget about the cute doctor, the enormous and crazily dangerous dinosaur, the inevitably worrying delay of the rescue teams and the insane mess this island is, and try to have a good sleep for the first time in what seems years –and probably is-.