Author's Note: I know I have other fics to finish, but this just kind of came to me.
"I try so hard
And then I give up so violently
Oh I don't know how
I still can go so quietly
But you want to go home
You won't take me too
Oh, what a lovely start
But oh how I mishandled you
But don't you think we came close?
Don't you want to come home with me?
But I remember the most
Don't you want a new memory?"
—Burn You Up – Thao
A Final View of Blue
It was true, what he had told Kate.
He had asked Juliet to stay for selfish reasons; maybe it had been a con, in the beginning anyway. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was desperate. Maybe he saw a glimmer of something that told him that if she stayed, he wouldn't feel so alone.
He's not exactly sure when, but there was definitely a change—a shift in the routine, a shift in the lie, a shift in the way he saw her. He didn't fall for her, he didn't move in with her, he didn't want her to be happy and safe because he needed to fill some sort of cavity. He wanted her.
--
"Do you love her?"
"More than anything."
"Then go back to wherever the hell your yards are and get her back."
"If I get caught—they'll kill me this time."
"Well, at least it'll be worth it."
--
He knows if she were here she'd be scolding him for leaving Miles, Jin, and even Hugo behind, probably the only guys he can actually call friends and mean it—in another life at least.
Instead of going back, though, he slumps against the wall and marvels at how merely three days ago he was standing at that window with her, assuring her nothing has changed this life of theirs.
And thirty years later, here he stands alone.
Even if he had the energy, he still doesn't think he'd be able to process the fact that the woman who deserved more than the cards that she'd been dealt, the woman who had the power to make him—the conman, the murderer, the nine-year-old orphan—think of marriage and flowers and love, now lies cold and alone in some unmarked stretch of land in the middle of the jungle.
Aside from the fact there's still a dent in the wall and a scrape along the wood where she once tried and failed to move the couch on her own, any trace of fact that this house was once theirs is gone. He used to lounge on the sofa with her and swap books and banter. Play card games with Jin. Sit and share haphazard insults and beers on that porch with Miles. Lie in this bed with her. Kiss in that kitchen.
He uses the last of his nonexistent energy to head towards their used-to-be bedroom and sheds the sweater that's stained with her blood. He watches it lay there on the floor as he leans back in a chair by the dresser instead of touching that bed—he blames himself for the pain, but the concept of lying there alone just hurts too damn much.
He wants to forget and yet he wants nothing more than to stay in here and hold onto what once was. Hold onto what he had here before he ever looked at Kate or made her doubt enough to let go or all of this was taken away by hydrogen bombs and 40 foot holes and guys named Jack who were full of tragic bullshit and age-old regrets. He stays in that room, chugging down Dharma beers until he's numb and laughs at the prospect of getting down on one knee because he still doesn't believe she's really gone.
He loses count of how many he drinks, but he's pretty sure he must've drank one too many. He's leaning against the wall and staring out their bedroom window, too lazy to even tap his fingers against the windowpane, when he comes to that conclusion.
He's certain his mind is playing tricks on him, because he suddenly hears a voice from the doorway behind him.
"That was a pretty ring. The ocean's one lucky girl."
The beer in his hand drops to the floor. He watches its contents spatter across the wood as his breath catches in his throat and his body turns to stone.
He doesn't want to turn around, because he knows that voice, yet he almost wants to laugh that it took four years on this island for him to finally crack.
When he finally does, all air seemingly vacates his lungs and he's surprised the floorboards don't collapse from right under him.
She has on that blue collared shirt and faded grey jeans she was wearing the day they watched the Kahana go up in smoke, the day they stumbled upon Amy and he realized she really had his back, the same as that night he sat on the dock and convinced her to stay. Her hair is long and straight, the blonde strands floating aimlessly in the stale air as she casually leans against the doorframe. Her eyes twinkle in amusement and she's got on this plastered smirk. He feels sick.
It only takes that one look, with his eyes burning and his mouth hanging open, and he already knows this is not his Juliet. The warm and loving gaze is gone. That gentle smile she reserves just for him is gone. All of it gone—only to be replaced by something dark and sinister. She's still smiling like she has some sort of funny little secret, and his stomach continues to churn.
She takes one look at his slackened jaw and drained complexion and props a hand upon her hip, tilting her head to the side as she sets her jaw in defiance, in mock-offense.
"Is that any way to greet the love of your life, James?"
His knees take this opportunity to buckle.
As his palms make contact with the old planks of wood beneath him, he thinks of how he placed that blanket over her beautiful face and let Miles help him lower her into the earth. And as sudden as her appearance, he's struggling to breathe, struggling to convince himself he's not going mad or getting sick or just plain dying.
She laughs.
His head jerks back up to look at her and she's still leaning there, placing a hand over her heart as if she just caught herself in some sort of realization.
"Oh, that's right," she says slowly, her voice husky and musing as if she's speaking to her more than him, as if she's reminding herself of some truth she'd forgotten. Her lips purse as if she's holding back a laugh and she crosses her arms in front of her before she deadpans, "I'm not Kate Austen."
The moment turns into a definite blur, and next thing he knows he snaps at her to go away. She does, but she seems to have left her laughter behind, because he can hear it echoing off the walls and seeping right through his skin. He keeps hearing her voice, all calm and collected, all cool as steel. All unnerving as hell and calming at once. As ever.
He doesn't touch another beer that night.
She appears again the following day, when he's sitting alone at the docks again.
If she weren't this Faux!Juliet, he'd want to tell her so many things. Tell her he's sorry, tell her loves her, tell her he's an idiot, tell her Kate doesn't mean what either of them thought she did, tell her…anything, even though he knows it might as well mean nothing now.
But he doesn't say a word as she surveys the waters in front of them before taking a seat on the crate next to him.
"Back here again?" she asks in jest, prodding him a little in the shoulder. He doesn't feel it. "Isn't this getting kind of morbid, even for you?"
She's smiling as she says this, but in his silence her gaze ventures downwards and notices the gun he has clenched in his hand. To her credit, this Juliet looks afraid—showing a different emotion for the first time since she's popped up from…wherever it is she comes from.
She falters for only a moment. Soon enough her smile is back up and she's regarding him in that airy Other voice of hers.
"Oh, let's not be rash, James."
"Just go away."
He swallows and clenches his jaw, remembering to breathe, remembering she isn't real.
"Don't get upset over little ole me," she whispers now, propping her chin up to rest against a palm.
His anger brims over at that.
"You don't get it, do ya Blondie?" he growls, all but spitting at her ghost.
"What, dear?" she coos, knowing that's what she used to call him when she was mocking him.
He turns to her for the first time since she appeared and his rage seems to melt into defeat. He exhales, but he can't look at this unreal Juliet, and instead speaks to the air around them.
"You were it," he murmurs, watching the little ripples of water splash up against the pillars of the dock. "Everybody gets one fuckin' shot at it. And you were mine."
"James," she whispers firmly, her tone suddenly deep and a sobered look of guilt and regret washing over her features. "It wasn't your fault. I'm the one who let go, remember?"
"You let go 'cause you thought…"
But he stops. Between her pokerface and the way she looked in the jungle, her expression pained with the thought of Kate and telling him they weren't supposed to be together to her bloodstained hand slipping out of his, telling him how much she loved him…he can't really say he knows what she thought at all.
"If I hadn't, we both would've fallen."
"And ya think this is any better?"
He shakes his head, not wanting to hear a response from her ghost, from his hallucination—whatever she is. He cradles the pistol and her nonexistent breath catches in her not-even-real throat.
"James, don't do this. It's not worth it," she urges now, all traces of mirth dissolving, her voice a rushed string of rambles. "You should go back to that temple to your friends; you might have a real chance of getting off this island. Please."
His hand pauses and he finally looks at her. Looks at those blue eyes and thinks of how he used to wonder what it would've been like to drown in those forever. Or at least until The Purge got them or some shit like that. He thinks of how she looks when she laughs. He thinks of that ring on the bottom of the ocean she'll never wear. He thinks of Ann Arbor and drugged-up orange juice and tries to imagine what she would've looked like in a white dress.
And then he pulls the trigger.
--
Somewhere in another time, a man steps off a plane.
Oh, what a lovely start…
I had a nightmare about zombies and listened to "Burn You Up" by the lovely Thao and "You Are My Home" by The Hush Sound about a million times each before I wrote this. Do what you will with that information. Reviews are love!