No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, Jack Shephard knew he would never forget that look on her face when she was brought out from the murky depths of the surrounding jungle. With a brilliant clarity, he could recall every detail engraved on her terrified face in that heart-stopping moment, could relive that gravity-defying lurch of dread after "Bring her out Alex!" The raw panic that had darkened her intense green eyes as the hood was ripped from her head. The glowering fire that had hightlighted the aching remorse etched across her delicate features. The pleading desperation that had torn his heart cleanly in two as murderous metal pressed against her pulsing carotid artery. It was burned into his memory and would be, always.
But it was so much more than just fear for her, Jack realized as he knelt next to her now sleeping form, cautiously readjusting the fleece airline blanket that had entwined itself about her legs. It was something stronger than just uncomplicated terror; it was a feeling he dare not put a name to.
For a split second, he thought he had woken her when she shifted, snuggling deeper into her flattened pillow, tucking the blanket close under her chin as she curled herself in a tighter ball. In her movement, a rebellious lock of hair fell lazily across her cheek, drawing Jack's attention to the smattering of freckles arching over the bridge of her nose. Tenderly brushing the stray dark waves behind her ear with the backs of his fingers, he smiled when she sighed contentedly against his comforting touch, mumbling incomprehensibly in her dreams.
She got to you too.
Startled by the marshal's intrusive words, Jack suddenly withdrew from the lingering contact, severing the dangerous intimacy he was allowing himself to rekindle. It was a moment of weakness—moments he realized that were more and more frequent. So he clamped down on it, reestablishing the formidable barriers and renewing vows to keep his heart and emotions firmly locked away. Emotional connections were treacherous and it was better this way. Better not to be concerned. Better not to worry. Better to keep one's distance and not be involved.
Don't choose, Jack. Don't decide.
"I know, Dad. I know," he muttered softly. As he watched Kate sleeping soundly, he couldn't help but nod at the ironic relevance of his dad's warning. She looked so serene and calm in sleep, but Jack knew there was much more to the façade Kate seemed to adopt each morning with the rise of the sun. He had glimpsed it in her own moments of weakness – sinking in the sand, debating between the caves and the beach, struggling over the marshal's case, the little toy airplane, the kiss in the jungle. The more he studied and attempted to understand these small revelations, the more he felt himself drowning in her puzzling complexity.
Just who was Kate Austen? What made her smile? What made her tick? What exactly had she done to deserve this kind of self penance? Could he help her? Could he fix her? Did she even want to be fixed?
Jack slowly rocked back on his heels, his deep brown eyes still fixed on her face, but focused in thought. If she were awake, Kate might have laughed at the familiar concentrated scrunch of his forehead. But she slept soundly despite his presence, and he was left alone to the mercy of his thoughts.
Because when you fail, you don't have what it takes.
And maybe, Jack realized, maybe that was why they could never work. He felt so strongly for her, he was afraid to disappoint, the same way he had hurt when he and Sarah had called it quits. After their divorce, he convinced himself he would never love again. He wouldn't trust himself with someone else's heart. But then he had met a wavy-haired, green-eyed freckled fugitive who had floored him with the vulnerability dancing in her eyes. She had captivated him with her intricate layers and intrigued him by playing the frustrating game of hard-to-get. Yet Jack was willing to play along, and play along he did.
Their back and forth flirting had raised the eyebrows of their fellow castaways and earned him the occasional good-natured ribbing from Hurley and Charlie. Try as he might to deny anything existed, Jack found himself growing more and more comfortable being seen as "Kate's territory" and began to reciprocate the possessive feelings. But for all their provocative teasing, a dark tension marred their potential relationship from advancing more than it already had.
Mistrust. Disappointment. Fear. Jealousy. Uncertainty. Secrets. There were many reasons anything between them would be rocky at best. All of them ending with a punctuated hurt. And Jack couldn't go through that again. Not with Kate. Not with anyone.
Carefully, slowly, he stood up, wincing as his cramped legs cracked and burned as the blood rushed to his toes. With one last sorrowful glance at her, Jack whispered, "I'm sorry Kate."
He turned and walked away, not looking back because he didn't care anymore. Saying he didn't care was a lie. It wasn't because he didn't want to. Jack didn't look back because it was too painful to see her and what might have been. There would… could be no Jack and Kate. He had convinced himself it was better this way.
Better for him.
Better for her.
Better for them both.