DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Well, that finale did not go as I had hoped or planned. But, thanks to Tiger21206 and a few words of encouragement, I am going to work with what the writers' have left us and create some, I hope, pretty good guesses at what's gone down and what's about to happen next. I am also going to back up some and fill in some gaps from this season. For now, this story is complete.
Mitch didn't want to let go of her. Her taste, her smell, her touch. He hadn't meant to kiss her. Not here. He had decided to get into Jackson's apartment first, where they were safe. Where they could talk without fear, without interruption. Not that he really wanted to talk this - whatever it was between them - out, but at least she'd have the opportunity to re-start what she'd started in the jeep. On her own time. As he found them something to eat. Somewhere warm to sleep.
He already knew where he stood regarding them. He loved her. Didn't much matter to him whether or not she felt the same way. He was going to continue loving her. Loved her when he thought she was dead. Loved her when she returned - and flirted - with Logan. Loved her when she shut his love down. Loved her even as he'd made out with Allison - imagining it was her instead of his ex - at the lowest point in his life. As much as he loved Clem. And, like Clem he would protect her and save her every chance he got, whether or not she wanted it.
But then, he'd gone and brought up the past. Jackson's past. Abe's past. And she'd asked about his. Whether it was the shock of the explosion, his last thought before he'd pressed the button, or the certainty that he wasn't going to make it that had lowered his walls and made him say what he'd said, he wasn't sure. Nor was he going to overanalyze it.
This was right. Her lips on his. His hands on her. Her body flush, warm against him.
"Mitch," she moaned, breaking the kiss to gasp for air.
He leaned back as well. "We need to get somewhere safe." He glanced toward the broken window at the top of the landing. The sun was setting. Soon the animals would come back out, drawn by their scent.
"Right." She bent her knees and collapsed to the step beneath her. He eased her down. "Just a moment."
He knew how she felt. He felt it, too. That kiss on the plane hadn't come close to this one. His body was humming with energy, his mind clearer than it had been in a long while.
"Come on," he offered her his hand and when she placed her palm in his, he hauled her to her feet and dragged her up the final flight of stairs to the third floor. Jackson's apartment was at the end of the hallway. Stopping before a door covered with a thick layer of dust, Mitch grinned at Jamie, reached up and slid his finger along the doorframe, knocking a small key off the ledge. She caught it.
Taking it from her, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside. Shutting it firmly, he relocked the door and hit the light switch. No power.
"Well. Candles, then."
"Jackson has a stash of candles?" He heard the incredulity in her voice. Truth be told, he wasn't sure. But considering the likelihood of power outages in the last few months across every major city, the odds were good.
He shrugged at her. "Check the kitchen drawers."
She laughed as she began opening drawers and rifling through them.
They sat on the living room floor, the bare hardwood cool to the touch. The sofa futon had seen better days and though Mitch hadn't found any live animals living inside it, there were quite a few mummified and skeletonized remains. Luckily long past smelling. Between them sat the three candles they had managed to find stuffed in the back of one kitchen drawer and in a stand in the bathroom. Mitch was pretty certain that touch had been due to Chloe more than Jackson.
Empty paper plates were scattered around them. Everything in the fridge was rotten, so he'd had to scrummage through the cabinets finding a few packets of raw noodles, some rice, canned meat, and a can of tomatoes. Jamie had laughed - God, he was even in love with her laugh, wanting to hear it as often as possible - when he'd attempted to make spaghetti. He had been more surprised the water still worked.
Sitting back against the edge of the futon, Mitch studied her. Her eyes were closed, chin bowed to her chest. Her hair fell in a tangle around her delicate features, soft with relaxation. Her lips bowed in a gentle, knowing smile, her cheeks flushed a healthy pink. Perhaps the first time he'd seen her so calm. Even when he'd caught her napping on the plane, she had looked worn and drawn, angry all the time.
He hated to disrupt her now, but he had a question burning through his skull. It wasn't important, but now that they were safe, he had to know.
"Where? How? When did you learn to hotwire a car?"
She lifted her head and beamed, flashing him a smug look. "You noticed."
"That you stole a car? Yes. I'm only asking because based on the nature of our time together, I can think of at least two circumstances where that kind of knowledge would have been very useful."
"Well…" she drawled, a bare trace of her southern accent drifting out.
"Logan?" he guessed. Caraquet was sounding more and more, despite the tiny bits of information she said in passing, like part nightmare and part joyride. He hoped it had been more joyride than not, even if Logan had been on the ride instead of him, but in his darkest moments, he knew she'd had to face many more nightmares.
"I had him teach me."
He swallowed what he really wanted to say. "Guess he wasn't all bad. Next time I see him, remind me to thank him."
It wasn't funny. She snickered anyway. No one would be seeing him again. To thank the bastard or otherwise. With that dart to his chest and push into open space she had made sure.
Jamie lay with her head in his lap. It was morning, sunlight streaming through the window. There wasn't much of it, what with the heavy curtains and bars over the window, but still, it felt good on her cheek.
Mitch was reading, propped up against the seat of the sofa. His glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. She tried to read the title but gave up after a few seconds. Something 'science' was all she could make out.
Smoothing her hands down her shirt, she tucked it in. The floor was colder than last night. Her fingers eased lower, slipping into a pocket.
"I have something for you."
He jumped at her voice, the glasses falling into the seam of the book. Putting the book down and picking up his glasses, he slipped them back into place. Grinning at her, he waited. She drew the small furry thing from her jeans and closing a fist over it, winked.
"Close your eyes and hold out your hand."
"What are you, five?" But, he did as she asked. Making sure his eyes were really closed, she dropped her gift into his palm.
Mitch peeked open an eye and studied the item on his open hand. "Uh? A rabbit foot. On a chain." He frowned at her, clearly lost on the reason. "Thanks."
"Put it in your pocket." At his uplifted brow and silent question, she added, "will balance out the bad luck of our kisses."
"I see." And he nodded, suddenly getting her meaning, though he didn't lose the frown. "I'm not supersti-"
She sat up abruptly, slapping a hand over his mouth. Facing him, she was trying hard not to laugh. "Of course, I could be mistaken" She reached to grab it back. Instantly, his fingers closed over hers and he pulled it away from her, shoving the good luck charm deep into his pocket. He gave her a cocky grin in return.
"The birth of science was the death of superstition." His voice was light, full of amusement. She wanted to hear that tone from him much more often. It warmed her heart. She tilted her head at him, a half-smile on her lips.
"Thomas Huxley. A biologist."
"Of course." She knew how much he liked showing off his extensive knowledge in front of her. This time, however, she was prepared. "'But how much does it cost you to knock on wood?' Judith Viorst. Author and journalist."