Author: Kristin (Midnight Blue)
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me, I swear. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This is an alternate ending for "Fallout", so just bear with me. I really had hesitations about posting this, but I figured, what the hell? I can only hope I don't disappoint.
Summary: It hurts to breathe sometimes.
*
He misses her most on clear nights; when the stars shine brightly and twinkle, barely visible against the bright city lights.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
She had sat there once, with him, wrapped in an old college sweater, sipping a stale iced tea, idly running her hand through his hair. Not much had been said between them, he was content to merely watch her, pretending he could keep her.
Her hand suddenly left his hair, pointing to the stars above, naming them, tracing them against the black canvas of night.
"The big dipper. Orion. Jack."
"Jack?"
"Yeah, my star for you. So I never lose you."
It was mushy and sentimental, and surprised him, that night; that night so many years ago. But then, she always surprised him. Even when he knew her best.
"You'll never lose me, Sam."
She had smiled at him, sadly, he remembers. As though she was pretending, pretending to believe his lie.
Pretending he was hers and always would be.
He hears her voice only in whispers now; on the wind, the city streets, the little bookstore across the street.
And she never had lost him, he thinks. Instead, it is he who's lost her.
It's been days, maybe weeks.
He's lost track of time, of minutes and seconds. He works, goes home at night to that woman with brown hair and brown eyes and lies, always lies. Lies to himself, to Marie, to Samantha.
He misses her most days.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
He strains against the silence for the sound, the noise, the little word that will reassure him.
"Jack?"
Reassure him that she never left.
He loosens his tie, leaning outside her door, staring vacantly out at the bustling city. She is inches away from him, unaware that his mind is telling him this is the last place he should be tonight; the last place he should be, ever.
And now, because his heart is slave to a love he tries to deny, he stands before her door, waiting to see her, hoping to see her.
For his sake, he wishes away the demons telling him to turn away. It's late, dark, quiet, and he's lonely. More lonely than he wants to dwell on, more lonely than he deserves to be.
His hands fumble through his coat, the chilly air framing his breath in the twilight.
He searches for it, his clumsy hands circling around the cold steel, bringing the old key up slowly to the knob, unlocking it.
She whispers again as he stands there.
She's in him and near him and every place he wants her to be.
But he can't have her, can't see her, can't touch her.
Can't love her.
Not anymore.
Not ever.
It's been days. Maybe weeks, or months, or years.
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus
He can't remember past yesterday.
Yesterday seems so close, so easy. Today is painful and tomorrow is nothing.
She's not here, hasn't been for a long time.
"Samantha?"
He knows she won't answer. Knows she won't peek out from behind the sofa, won't wear that sweater he bought her for Christmas last year, two years ago -- or maybe it was three? He won't hear her tap the pen on the side of her desk when she's bored and restless, won't hear her sing out of tune with that song he can't remember.
He knows he won't hear her breathe.
It's cold in her apartment, and empty. Her life still lingers around him, haunting him. There's pictures on the walls, sheets on the bed, movies by the VCR, and silence in that little space between the kitchen and the bedroom where she should be, watching him, smiling at him, loving him.
He settles down on the couch, remembering, always remembering.
He remembers her eyes: sad, lost, slightly afraid. He remembers her cold lips and her pale face and her breath coming agonizingly longer than it should be. He remembers her hands reaching for his, clutching at his shirt in the tiny bookstore.
"It wasn't your fault, Jack."
It's always his fault. Every moment he relives it, that day, that moment, that second when she left him and took a little part of his soul.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei
There's so many why's and how's and should not's and what if's that his life is no longer a reality, but a dream, a memory that stays forever still in that moment, with her, loving her, needing her, losing her.
He walks by that bookstore now, finds a way to see it everyday. On some days, he sees Ted outside it, sitting there, waiting, watching, never bothering to go in again. He doesn't work there anymore, he doesn't go inside.
None of them ever go inside.
Fran and Libby, they drift around, never going near it, never wanting to be too close. He catches their eyes sometimes, they look up at him and then at the store and then, then they look at that empty space beside him where they know she should be.
But she never is.
He looks inside on some days, when he finds the strength inside him as elusive as life itself. Runs a shaky hand on the knob, on the glass, wanting to go in, thinking maybe if he does, she'll be there, still there, alive, and waiting.
So he looks inside, through the thick, cold glass, he sees people and books, but not the one person who should be there.
Who's never there.
It hurts to breathe sometimes.
ora pro nobis peccatoribus
"Jack? Am I going to die?"
His head hurts, his eyes burn. It's cold, always cold.
He pretends she's here. He pretends he can hear her feet on the tile, opening the fridge, brushing her teeth, watching television, living. He runs a hand along the couch, feeling her skin on his, her hair falling through his fingers, her lips on his lips, his neck: warm on cold, breathing life into his empty heart.
He lied to her. Lied to her in her last moment on earth.
"It's okay, Sam. Just hold on, you're gonna be fine."
His heart begged her to stay, his head told him she wouldn't.
"J-Jack?"
"Just hang on, Sam. Just rest, you're gonna be fine, I promise."
Her eyes fluttered, fighting against the darkness swarming around her, fighting to stay with him. She held to him, willing herself to stay there, wrapped in his warmth. And then her eyes changed, a fog coming over them, drowning her. Her breath came in short gasps, then quieted, slowly dying away into the night. With one last ounce of strength, she lifted her bloody hand to his cheek.
"I'm sorry, Jack."
He closes his eyes. It's too hard to look anymore, to look at a world passing him by, a world still moving around him when his feet drag like lead, the only indication to him that he's still standing.
"I love you, Jack."
And then she had left him, just as quietly as she had first entered his life. Not with a bang, a loud hello, a grand entrance. She had first met him on a chilly, winter morning. She had left him on a hot, summer night.
And both times, she whispered her hello's and goodbyes, not needing to say anymore.
He touches his cheek where her hand last moved, still feeling her gentle touch. The blood never goes away, never washes off. It stains his clothes, his hands, always reminding him of his failure.
He can't stop living there, in the past, with her.
She had been his past, his present, his future, his tie to this life.
He had lied to her. Lied. Why had he lied?
Because it was easier to lie, to pretend he didn't need her. To pretend Marie was his only love, his only purpose. To pretend he could look at her and not want her, not need her.
It was easier to pretend that he didn't love her.
It was easier to pretend because the truth meant she was really gone.
Work is lonely without her. He feels it every time he calls her name and never receives an answer.
He misses her when he buys that magazine she likes and lays it on her desk; when he buys the hot dogs she loves from across the street for lunch, to surprise her; he misses her when he sees an old movie ticket in his glove compartment, her coat still draped over the couch in his office, when he flips through the TV late at night and sees her favorite movie, hearing her echoes as she quotes it over and over again until he knows it, by heart, without seeing it.
He misses her when he sees a woman with blond hair in a ponytail, when he walks past a bookstore, when he sees a couple in love, when he sees her badge every time he opens his drawer, keeping it safe for her until she comes back. But she never will.
He misses her most days.
He misses her always.
nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae
Life lurks in shadows, clings closest and tightly where it's most hated.
He wants to pretend she's here so it will make living easier.
But he can't.
Not ever.
She never heard him, and that, perhaps, is what haunts him most. In her final, desperate moments, she'd simply held onto him and then slipped away, and that, he thought bitterly, was when he chose to tell her.
It always came at the worst moment.
Love.
Life.
Death.
Never a good time.
"I love you, Sam."
His weary body rises, reluctant, as always, to leave. With one last glance in her apartment, he softly shuts the door, then stands and stares at the wall between them.
"I'll see you later, sweetheart."
This time, he speaks the truth.
Amen
*
FIN
Notes: I'm pretty sure Jack's Catholic (considering "Hang Onto Me"), so, for the purpose of my story, I decided to intermingle the words from my favorite prayer in Latin.
Latin: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
Translation: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death. Amen.