Author's Note: Something I just had to get out of my system. I have no idea if this is any good. Reviews are love! Rated T for the occasional curse word.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It's the grace that makes her stare. A grace that Kate herself has never been able to achieve. (But then maybe it can't be achieved, maybe it's just there) It makes her jealous and she hates that it does and that's why she hates her and her fucking gracefulness.
Juliet's sitting on her front porch - her and Sawyer's fucking white-picked-fence front porch- reading a book, looking graceful and not even noticing. Which makes it even worse. The straw-hat placed on her head leaves a mesmerizing shading on her perfect, pale skin. It looks like a thousand little orbits fighting over the best place on her face and shoulders and it gives her eyes this soft look that somehow, in the most messed up way, makes Kate feel guilty for hating her and she just hates her more for it.
It's not fair. To both of them.
Kate, the runner. Kate, the fugitive. Kate, who only managed to stop running for a little while on this fucking craphole of an island, got to leave it. Left it. Got into a helicopter and just flew away.
While Juliet; mousy, self-conscious Juliet. Juliet, whom the Island had made lethal. Juliet, the captive who would do anything, who'd done anything, to get off the Island, had to stay— again.
The Island had made Juliet the fugitive and Kate the hero. It had destroyed Juliet's life and gave a second chance to Kate. And then, by a sick twist of irony, it had destroyed Kate's life back in the real world and given Juliet a second chance.
Because of her own damn stubbornness and always, always because of the captivating, addicting, fucking freedom of running, Kate had messed it up. Messed it up and went back to the Island. Only to have it rubbed in her face. It, what she could have had if she hadn't been so arrogant, so ignorant, so naive to think that she didn't need a second chance from anybody, that she just could keep out-running her own consciousness, her own life.
It was rubbed in her face by beautiful, blonde, graceful Juliet, who hadn't been so stupid to deny the offer of something resembling happiness. Who was intelligent enough to pretend that playing house, just as she had done, was real and genuine and sufficient. That this make-believe was actually life.
Right now, in this moment, Juliet has everything that Kate wants. Watching her was like getting a glimpse into her own deepest dreams and desires. And somehow, it was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that it made her sick. She had to turn away to circumvent throwing up her pitiful excuse of a soul, coated in all her acid faults. (So much for gracefulness)
...
If Kate had looked closer. If she had been able to get past her own self-loathing, masked by hate and jealousy. If Kate had only looked closer, she might have noticed the way Juliet's fingers couldn't keep still. How they were constantly twitching, playing with her hair, fingering the pages of her book. She might have noticed that Juliet hadn't turned a page in the last 10 minutes, that her eyes hadn't been skimming the pages, hungrily swallowing every word like they usually did, but staring off into space. (Kate then might have wondered if the hat wasn't there for shade but to hide a lost look in her eyes, a fear or resignation maybe.) She would have noticed that the yellow daisy-flower tugged into the hat-band had long dried.
Because as much as Juliet had believed, had wanted this new life to last, it was unstoppably falling apart.