Rating: PG
Spoilers: SEE WARNING.
Ship: J/I
Rating: PG
Archive: CM; anyone else ask first so I can come visit.
Summary: The story of Jack and Irina, told in eleven photographs.
AN: This is written for the J/I forum challenge over at SD-1. Elements: a flashback, stars, flame, and a scene with ashes, incorporated near the end. (Credit for the ashes paragraph goes to the wonderfully talented blackdawn.)
Major spoiler warning: This entry is based on Season 3 spoiler spec. If you don't want hints about Jack and Irina during those two years, read this after the 28th.
First. Christmas Party.
They stand just off-center in a thick Polaroid square. Their colors are muted, her hair too muddy, his skin too sallow. The aging photograph displays them in earth tones, an overexposure, or perhaps just a reflection of the dull colors that so popular that year. They stand, side by side, perfectly dated and locked in time.
You see air between them, you might slide a pencil or even a whole hand between the two. His arm is laid across her shoulder, lightly, tentatively, as if it is not accustomed to resting there, as if he will snatch it back the moment the flash fades.
She does not flinch from the touch, or from the camera flash; it colors her dark eyes red, glitters in her bright smile. He smiles too, only a little, in that tight way of his. His eyes look above the camera, past it, and if you look closely you might read the expression as mischievousness, or perhaps gloating. He is proud of himself -- whatever little game it is, he has won.
You might suspect it has something to do with the woman he just put his arm around.
What you don't see:
The friend behind the camera, waving a hand, directing them to pose and smile. The glimmer of jealousy, a friendly kind, that this woman came to the party with Jack. The aftermath of the photo, the way they slide out of the thick white frame, his confidence increasing as he settles his arm more heavily on her shoulder. Her head tilting back, she laughs. His deep chuckle as he joins in.
A drive home, the nerves, the wait. His hand rests on the small of her back, awkward there as it had been on her shoulder. But she smiles, turns toward him, tilts her head up just enough to hint, not quite enough to invite. He swallows, the hand perspires, clammy against her thick sweater. He bends down, leaning forward: the kiss is brief, hesitant, gentle. She smiles at him as she pulls away, dark eyes glittering. He smiles back, opening his mouth to speak and shutting it again, forgetting what he intended to say. She leaves him with a simple goodnight, squeezes his arm as she turns away.
Second. Mother.
The woman in the center of the frame grins at the camera, thin lips parting wide over her teeth. If I asked, you would say she is closer to seventy than to fifty-four, but the picture will not show her true age. Nor will it show the cancer consuming her from the inside, the wrenching pain that will end her life only a few months later. It will reveal the odd thickness of her curled brown hair, as if it belonged somewhere else, the odd flatness of her chest, hidden beneath a flowing blouse.
But you will not notice any of this, because she distracts you with the whiteness of her teeth and the happiness in her eyes. You will look at her expression and think, home.
She sits ramrod-straight on a loud floral sofa, with an afghan of knitted pastels drawn across her waist. The height of her cheekbones and the jut of her chin are reflected in the face of the man sitting next to her. He sits a few inches away, knees angled toward her, smiling in her direction. His gaze is directed not at her, but past her, to the other end of the photo. His near arm is bent in a sharp V, his hand resting on her arm, just below the shoulder. Perhaps he was getting her attention, perhaps shielding her. On one finger of that hand, you will notice a simple gold band.
It matches a gold band worn by the second woman, standing at the other end of the picture. She hovers on its edge, as if entering from another room, revealed in profile. Her back is cut off straight, and her hair in a perfect 90-degree angle. Her left hand waves through the air, caught in mid-gesture. Perhaps she was speaking.
Her lips are parted, in what might be a word or the beginning of a smile. Her visible eye locks with those of the man seated on the couch; his smile is for her.
What you don't see:
A bug, so they call it. A miniscule mess of black plastic and wire, large now, but small for the time. It decorates the interior lining of his wallet, which he will carry with him to places she cannot go. He would discover it much later, full of cool burning anger and bright red fury, and add it to the long list of reasons he gives himself to hate her.
A beginning, like a spark, the tiniest hint of a being, of a daughter, and later a woman with her mother's glittering eyes and her father's set jaw. Not even the woman knows of its presence yet, it is a secret, waiting to be discovered. Her stomach is flat, even, like the calm assurance in her eyes. She does not know that she already carries a liability, like a lit fuse, it will be simultaneously her greatest triumph and her undoing.
Third. The Illusion.
She's wearing a rather hideous periwinkle hospital gown, just the wrong color for her, and it heightens the pallor of her skin. Her dark hair has been pulled back in some sort of loose ponytail, and damp wisps of it curl against her face, stuck to her temples. She is not smiling, but she has that Mona Lisa look, as if she has just finished smiling, or is just about to. Her face is not angled toward the camera, but down at the blanket in her arms. The material looks rough and scratchy, far too coarse for its purpose. It's an unfortunate shade of pink that will doubtless remind you of pepto bismol, the color so deep that you might miss at first the tiny profile poking out from it, near the crook of her arm.
She holds her free hand above the bundle, fingers curled in, only her pinky extended. A tiny pink hand reaches out from the blanket, gripping that finger with a strength too great for something so small. She is not looking at the camera, but down at that tiny profile, and the expression in her eyes is something he has never seen before, something he can never forget. He stands behind the camera, viewfinder blurring before him as he blinks too quickly.
There were times when the illusion of our marriage was as powerful to me as it was for you. He likes to pretend she was mocking him; no question she was baiting him. He likes to believe it was a lie. But this photo haunts him, swims before his vision when he closes his eyes, materializes on his blank ceiling late at night. He remembers the expression on her face when she held their daughter, remembers the expression moments later when she looked up at him, jabbing at his eyes behind the camera.
It was her worst lie. But when he sees this picture, he can't help but believe it.
