Splinters
for lenina20
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It happens when he passes the newsstand on his way to the diner. He stops in his tracks; his head turns back fast enough to give him whiplash. He turns around and picks up the copy of Newsweek-"Outrage in Iowa" in red type across her mug shot.
He remembers.
(Son of a bitch)
At the diner, he takes the leads on Sawyer from Pete and flips through them quickly. There is no mention of Anthony Cooper, no sign of the man he choked the life out of in a dark ship on an island in the south pacific.
He tosses a wad of bills at the man across the table. "There's a hundred extra there. Find me the address of Kate Austen-
"The chick who blew up her father?" Pete interrupts.
"Yeah, man, that one. Get me a file on her by tomorrow and there'll be another thousand comin' your way."
He stands-
"And keep it quiet, for fucks' sake."
----
Three days later, he stands outside an unassuming apartment complex in Montgomery. Her apartment is number 107.
(Thank God it's not 108)
He raises his hand to knock when the door opens. She stares at him, eyes wide.
"James."
It's not a question.
----
He presses her against the door to her bedroom. It's rough and uneven and he wonders if she'll be pulling splinters from her back in the morning. He vindictively hopes so, and pushes her harder against the door, the hard and fast rhythm of his thrusts undoubtedly causing her pain as her hand bangs in time against the wood. But she doesn't complain.
Later, they lie on opposite sides of her big bed. So many questions run through his thoughts in the dark-
(When did you remember? What do you remember? Do you remember it all? Why didn't you find the Doc? Did you think you'd find me in Alabama? What Why How-)
Instead he says, "I'm going to find Clementine."
"I'll go with you."
"I figured."
----
They stay in seedy motels as the make their way to Albuquerque. She never complains about the quality of his choices. Maybe like him, she relishes the dank wet smell of the mold, the light patter of dripping faucets, broken lamps, stucco ceilings, and dimly lit corridors.
He buys a bottle of liquor from the store around the corner, slipping the cash under the bars.
"Keep the change."
He walks back to the motel, brown paper bag in hand. He pulls the bottle from the bag, crumpling it in his fist. Southern Comfort-the warm weight of the bottle in his hand puts him at ease.
(I've never been in love)
They drink in silence, passing the bottle between them. She opens her mouth a few times, and he waits expectantly, but each time she says nothing.
After they fuck on top of the duvet covered in cigarette burn holes, he leaves her lying there, flushed and sweaty, to take a shower. To wash her away.
----
When he leaves the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his hips, he sees her tear off a slip of the motel's notepad paper and place it in her wallet.
"Your turn."
He finds it later, folded gingerly and tucked underneath her id.
(fake, of course-even when she has nothing to run from, she can't just be Kate Austen)
Colleen and Danny Pickett: adopted Aaron Pickett Nov. 15, 2004. Portland, OR.
He remembers a broken man holding a gun to his head in the warm rain as Kate begged for his life behind him.
(Close your eyes, Freckles)
For a second he contemplates tearing the paper in two, crumbling it, burning it…but instead, he refolds it and slips it back into Kate's wallet.
He knocks on the bathroom door-
"I called the listing for Cassidy Phillips in Albuquerque. She doesn't live there anymore."
He clears his throat, smoothing a hand across the shaggy hair covering his eyes.
(He refuses to cut his hair because Juliet liked it long)
"She told me once that she wanted to move to Seattle or…one of those places. Somewhere up there-
(where it never stops raining)
-so I was thinkin' we could head north. That alright with you, Freckles?"