Title: Passing Phuket
Characters: Jack/Kate
Summary: Jack and Kate cross paths in Phuket two years before the crash.
The bruises on his face are turning a black blue and he winces in pain when he presses an index finger against his cheek. The bartender is a kid of barely fifteen who does not speak a word of English, but somehow he understands perfectly when Jack mumbles, "make it a strong one."
He had thought he'd seen the worst that Phuket had to offer, but after being beaten up and banished by Achara's brother and his gang, he found out there was a whole different, seedier, part he had not seen yet. He knew the smartest and safest decision would be getting on a plane and heading home. But the thought of going back to Los Angeles, back to his old life was more revolting that staying in Phuket, risking his life just a little longer.
He spends his time in bars that even the low lives that are after him do not dare go to. He plays poker during the day and spends his winning getting wasted at night. And this evening was no different.
His eyes wander around the room and everything seems to fit. A couple of elderly men, already drunk, argue over some card game. A shady deal is being sealed in one of the darker corners of the room. The resident pimp takes the best seat in the bar while his girls roam around looking for the first customer of the evening. Members of the local gang are already seated in their designated corner, each slime ball eying a different girl. Everything fits, including him, with his beat up face and fresh tattoos. Everything fits in this dark, dirty bar except for one thing. Everything fits except for her.
She sits two seats down the bar from him. She is obviously not a local and when she orders her drink, her American accent is hard to avoid. She wears a gray hoodie and a pair of worn out jeans. She has obviously been traveling a lot. Her unruly brown curls frame her sun kissed cheeks and she aimlessly fiddles with a lighter.
He clears his throat and coughs out an "excuse me". She half expects the American she spotted earlier to use some sleazy "whats-a-girl-like-you-doing-in-a-place-like-this" line on her, but instead he just motions towards the lighter in her hand with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers.
"This stuff will kill you," she says as she slides him the lighter across the bar.
He chuckles, and she does not expect it. The warmth of it as it reaches her shocking her slightly. "What about you?" he asks.
"I don't smoke," she says plainly, taking the lighter back from him. She expects that their conversation has ended there and goes back to staring at her drink.
Jack on the other hand, is just not ready yet to end it there, something about this girl pulling at him. "So you just like playing with fire?" he asks, waiting to gauge her reaction.
She cannot hide the smirk that crosses her lips, cocking her head slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye, "yeah, something like that."
His eyes look past her along the bar, in search of an ashtray, trying to maintain some semblance of civility in this hellhole. She slides the two closest to her and smiles, "any color preference?"
He chuckles - no, he fucking giggles, she thinks to herself – "standard black."
Every neuron in her brain is ringing an alarm urging her to get up and leave, but something else, something stronger, is making her stay, pushing her to this man, and before she knows it, she has moved from her stool to the one closer to him.
"Get in trouble with the locals?" she asks, studying his face, realizing for the first time the gentle features below the bruises – he looks like a clean cut all American boy, and that giggle, she still cannot get over that fucking giggle.
"Something like that," he answers, turning to face her. "You don't look like a trouble maker," she says, locking her look with his.
"Yeah? What do I look like?" he asks, getting pulled into the intensity of the look they are sharing.
"Like someone stuck fighting another man's battle," she replies, pulling closer, daring him to ask the question she knows has to be lingering at the tip of his tongue.
"Is that so?" he says, reading the challenge in her eyes, he adds, "what about you?"
She takes it, narrows her eyes and answers, with matching defiance," I run. I don't fight. If I find myself some place I should not be in, I run."
He nods slightly and watches as she breaks their eye contact, before he whispers, "you're not running now."
They sit in silence for a while, and after he orders his third drink, she turns back towards him, her fingers inches from his arm and she studies the fresh tattoo adorning his bicep. "That must have hurt," she says, her eyes travelling back up to his face.
He just shakes his head," nah, it was ok," he says with a shrug. She touches his bruised face tentatively, cautiously aware of the line she is crossing, "yeah, I can see. You're pretty hard-core," she says, trying to hide the tremble in her voice – why the hell is she nervous just sitting next to him? – with a teasing tone.
He shuts his eyes for a second; not trusting his own voice because somehow that almost invisible feather touch has made him weak and his throat has dried up.
He opens his eyes and hides the crack in his voice with another chuckle – again, she thinks, as that giggle dances against her skin – "that's me. Hard-core."
She turns in her stool, rich brown curls brushing across her face and her laughter manages to silence all the other sounds in the bar. Any other night he would blame the alcohol for the fire running through his veins, or the evening breeze for the hairs standing on the back of his neck, but not tonight. Tonight, it is all her, the green eyed brunette he just happened to bump into in the middle of nowhere.
She glances at the watch on his wrist and pushes herself of her seat. He does not ask her to stay and she does not expect him to. What he does say, though, is the last thing she expects him to say.
"I don't know your name."
She panics for the shortest moment before pointing towards his empty glass, the fifth of the evening. "You won't even remember it in the morning," she says.
He nods and adds, embarrassedly, "humor me."
The twinkle in his eyes sends a shiver down her spine. And she smiles, an honest innocent smile, something she thought she was no longer capable of, and answers, simply, "Kate."
Not Annie. Not Maggie. Not Lucy. Right now, she thinks it is only right for her to be Kate. And whether this man – the stranger who made her stop running for one evening – whether he remembers her name or even remembers ever meeting her or not when he wakes up with a hang over the next morning, she wants to be just Kate to him. Kate, the person she has long forgotten how to be.
He repeats her name to himself, barely a whisper, watching her walk out of the bar into the dark alley.
The next morning, with her backpack slung over her shoulder, Kate finds her self back at the same bar. She stands at the door. A young boy sweeps the floor while the man who apparently had not left since she left him the night before sits at a beat up piano revealing another secret about himself. His shoulders are slumped, his back turned towards her, but she can tell his is focused as his fingers travel expertly over the black and white keys.
The lonely melody calls to her, urging her to stay, like a tune begging her to pull it out of its loneliness, a tune promising her redemption. But Kate is not ready. She is not ready to hear how this tune will end.
At least, she is not ready just yet.