Title: "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
'Ship: hints of Shannon/Sayid
Spoiler: none, but anything through "Outlaws" to be safe.
Length: one-shot
Summary: Shannon knows the secret to being a good liar
Author's Note: My first attempt at a Shannon fic, and it was hard! We have so little backstory about Shannon or her past, and very little characterization to work with, so I tried doing something that fit within canon, but had to expand on my own to give the story some depth. Mostly, I tried to dig into Shannon and figure out why she is the way she is, and if anyone wants to provide feedback, I'd love to hear your thoughts about my characterization. That's what I work on the most, giving the characters distinct voices and keeping them in canon, so any feedback would be great! As always, hope everyone enjoys.
In the days, the golden days
When everybody knew what they wanted
It ain't here today
"Half Day Closing" -Portishead
It's easier, during the day, when she can drown her sorrows in sunshine and sand and wish herself away to someplace where no one knows her and she doesn't know them and she doesn't have to look into Boone's eyes and remember all the mistakes she's made.
She's convinced the island is schizo – or maybe bi-polar – or afflicted with some kind of mental illness because it's making her go insane and it rains at the weirdest times and forces her to wear the same clothes for three days straight. She wishes she still had some of the Halidol Bryan scammed for her in Sydney, because she'd slip some in Jack's waterfall and take a sip and wake up back in LA where it never rained and the weather was always a perfect, balmy 75o and there were no such things as polar bears in the tropics or man eating monsters or crazed psychos kidnapping pregnant women. It's just that it's so damn hot, and sticky, and everything she owns is stained dark with sweat. Not that anything is really hers, but in her fragile reality it's all she has: a DB poncho, discarded Manolos, a Chanel purse where she stores Eucalyptus leaves in case the asthma comes back. She's taken to wearing bikinis all day, every day, and not just because she likes the way Sawyer's eyes darken in appreciation, but because they're the only thing that's hers, the only thing that's part of her world before boar meat and French women and Scott washing up dead and broken on the beach.
They think she's selfish and spoiled and that dreaded word – useless – but they don't know that it's the only way she can cope. That when she's laying in the sand and the sun stretches hot and tight across her back, she can forget. That when she closes her eyes she's home in LA and the laughter in the background isn't Charlie and Claire's, but hers and the tennis pro's she dated last summer. When she closes her eyes all she sees is her stepmother's pool and the latest imports at Fred Segal and Sunset Boulevard all lit up like a Christmas tree. She sees the girl she used to be, before Laurent and Bryan and all the men and boys before them, and sometimes, when she tries really hard, she thinks she sees happiness too. Like when her daddy was alive and her mom was always smiling and she was still good inside, when Boone loved her in the right way, before she ran away with Trey and could believe in love and trust and all those things…and in moments like these, she never wants to wake up. Never wants to open her eyes and remember she's trapped on mystery freaking island with no one but Locke for protection and nothing to eat but fruit she's never heard of and nothing to do but think of what might have been...if only she hadn't wanted to hurt Boone for having everything she wanted. If only she wasn't a selfish bitch who loved herself above all other things. If only Bryan hadn't hit her and turned out to be the worst liar this side of the law…if only Boone just given her the money and let her slink away to Fiji as planned…if only she could stay like this forever.
The nights are hardest, and isn't just the whacky weather or how wrong it feels sleeping on a tropical island under a pile of blankets and curled up next to a campfire – but she has bigger problems to worry about. At night, when it's dark and the sun is gone and there's nothing to make her think of LA and better times, she never wants to close her eyes. She sits by the fire, wrapped in a stranger's blanket and wearing a stranger's clothes, and watches the moon shimmer over the water. It's dark here, so dark she can see every star in the sky and Claire's been teaching her the constellations. She always picks Andromeda first and foremost, the pretty princess chained to a rock, a monster nipping at her heels, waiting for the prince to come save her. She likes to think she can identify with the story, because she's pretty and she's a princess and she's most definitely trapped. Except there's no hero to rescue her, no white knight to sweep her into his arms and give her a magical kiss and promise happily ever after. Not here, not in the jungle of mystery and not even in LA. For a little while she'd thought Trey could save her, back when she was young and stupid and could lie to herself better then she could do anything else. Trey was supposed to save her, take her far away from a stepmother who hated her and a brother who loved her the wrong way and a life that had nothing to offer – nothing that mattered, anyway. Then he'd learned there was no money – and she'd learned there was no love – and Trey Rutherford slipped out of her life as easily as he'd slipped in, leaving nothing behind but his name and broken promises.
And now she has nothing but someone's old sweater from the GAP and the stars to keep her company. A shooting star sprints across the line of the sky, slicing through Orion's heel with its wake. She knows that story. It's one of the first Claire taught her, after she found the Big Dipper all by herself for the first time and they celebrated with Sun's guava juice in coconut shell glasses. She knows the legend as well as she knows Andromeda's: girl falls for boy; boy falls for girl; girl's brother gets jealous – and it only gets uglier from there. Claire said there was another constellation, Scorpius, but they never appear at the same time and they're forever chasing one another across the sky. "Apollo was jealous," she said, her accent lilting over the words. "So he sent a scorpion to take out the competition, and Artemis hung his constellation in the sky as a memorial." She remembers the look in Boone's eyes after Sayid brought her the shoes – if he EVER tried to hurt anyone because of her – she closes her eyes and pushes the thoughts away…and remembers why she never closes her eyes at night anymore.
It's like the episode of "Sex and the City" after Carrie sleeps with Big while she's in love with Aidan, and she keeps seeing flashes of skin and sex and heartbreak, and she sees them too – only it's not the love of her life pushing against her eyelids, it's her brother, and it makes her feel uglier inside, like she could climb out of her own skin – only she doesn't have another one to wear instead, because she knows de nile isn't just a river in Egypt, and when she looks deep inside herself and stops idealizing Trey and fixating on Boone, she knows LA wasn't that happy or that great, and while she might have been clean and surrounded by shiny new things, it never felt like home. It's easier that way, to twist LA into a little piece of heaven, because it takes her mind off a hotel room in Australia and her brother's hands on her breasts and his tongue in her mouth and all the kinds of wrong that went down that night, all the kinds of wrong that have gone down since. She wants to wonder if anything will ever feel right again, how long she'll have to lie to herself and make LA this fantasyland filled with dreams and hope, before she'll be able to cope. But the thought of never – never getting off this island, never being free again – it's worse then any made up reality.
It's getting close to dawn, she can tell by the position of the stars, and her eyes burn from lack of sleep and her skin itches, but she can't close her eyes. Not until the sun is beating down on her, warm and golden, and she can imagine any fantasy she wants and forget the mess that's become her life.
She doesn't hear him approach because he's good that way, all quiet and stealth and full of answers. He sits beside her without a word, six inches separating them, but she can feel his heat singeing her skin through the sweater and blanket and ever present layer of sweat. She wants to ask him why he's there, why he's so intent on rescuing her when she doesn't believe in princes and fairytales anymore. She wants to ask why he doesn't chase after Kate, who so clearly wants to be rescued and have men fight over her and hold her in their arms and keep her safe from herself. Because no one can save her anymore, not unless he can get her off this freaking island and make LA a distant memory and make her pretty and polished and new inside – and that's never going to happen. But she doesn't say anything and he doesn't either, just holds out his hand and she takes it without a word.
He doesn't watch as she strips off her clothes and lays down beside him in a her bikini bottom and a tank top she swiped from Kate's stash, and she tries not to flinch as he wraps her in his arms and tucks her head into the curve of his neck. He's warm and solid behind her, and the heat stretching hot and tight across her back feels kind of nice. His arms hold her close, lock her in place, presses her against every inch of his body. She could so easily change things. So easily turn the tables and stick her tongue in his mouth and let him have her the way others have before.
Except that's not what he wants – and that's not what she wants either. She likes this, his arms holding her tight and his heat spreading over her skin like a hot July afternoon. She hasn't felt this good in forever. Her eyelids are getting heavy and dawn is just beginning to crest over the water, muted tones of red and purple, orange and pink coating the horizon. It's pretty – really pretty – and reminds her that there are advantages to being stranded on a desert island in the middle of nowhere – she'll never see sunsets quite so beautiful again. She falls asleep with the new day on her mind and dreams of anything and everything that doesn't include Boone and sex and epic mistakes.
She spends the next day in her purple bikini and helps Claire make clothes for her new baby, pulling apart someone's flowered pajamas and turning them into all sorts of diapers and sleepers and onesies. She avoids the beach and its memories of LA and pain, evil stepmothers and bulimia, cocaine and booze and all the things she wants to forget. Claire thanks her for the help and offers to point out another constellation, and she declines politely, probably for the first time in her life. Because she's sick of stars and darkness and waking life. She's sick of pretending. She's sick of lying.
His skin is soft against hers, hot and prickly through the thin layer of cotton separating them. She slips her fingers under the hem of his tank top, slides them up the planes of his chest, cradles them against his heart. He shifts in sleep, breath wheezing out sharply, and she stills, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her fingertips, the pulse in her thumb jumping hard. Because she doesn't want to ruin this – she can't ruin this – because it's the one thing she likes more then all the fantasies she spins about LA and escape and showers with hot water. She likes his chest pressed against her breasts, his hands clinging low on her belly, his curls tickling her cheeks. It's been going on for a week now, this thing between them that's not sex, but more than sex, not intimate, but more than intimate. She doesn't know what it is, or how to define it, or if she really wants to. All she knows is that when she closes her eyes, his warm body wrapped around hers so tight she can barely breathe, she doesn't have to lie anymore – especially not to herself. And when she closes her eyes she sees happiness without even trying, because it feels familiar and safe and right.
She slips her hand into his, strong fingers wrapping around her slender ones, and squeezes three times.
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.
So...thoughts?