Jack, post-Season 5
He does not resist as they drag him away again. Nor does he fight as they throw him back in the cramped room, his head thudding painfully against the steel floor.
He hears the click of the lock and now the only light he sees is the meager sliver coming just under the door.
He only wants it to end, but his mind, as it was trained to do, methodically assesses the situation.
He knows he is on a ship, a large one judging by the fact that he can just make out the thrum of the engine through the deck plating. It is not a good sign; they mean to take him far away. And he knows there are too many of his captors on this ship to try to escape. It is something he doubts he can attempt anyway as he turns his attention on himself.
His one eye is all but swollen, and he guesses that at least two of his ribs are broken, maybe three. His left knee is severely bruised; he tries to straighten it and immediately regrets it. The throbbing in his head becomes stronger.
He knows that he should stay awake, that he almost certainly has a concussion. But the lure of unconsciousness it too strong.
He closes his eyes.
He does not think about the first time he saw her or the first time he kissed her, though both days float on the fringes of his memory.
He does not even think about the first night they spent together.
Instead, he remembers an evening in early June, and it is as if it is happening for the first time.
It is a rare evening, when her father has no engagements, and so lets them both go early, having no idea what a gift he has given them.
She waits until her father is out of earshot, and leans forward and makes a suggestion. He nods and smiles and offers to bring the wine.
He dresses casually, as she has instructed, and stops by the store on his way. It takes him an absurdly long time to pick out a bottle, hoping he is choosing correctly.
When he arrives, she opens the door, the fragrance of a delicious meal preceding her. She smiles and takes the bottle from him (complimenting his choice, he notes with relief), and as he follows her inside he can't help but admire the soft way her hair falls just past her shoulders, the long length of her back. It is all still new to him.
The dinner is as wonderful as it smells, and though he tries to tease her into admitting otherwise, she swears she made it herself.
He offers to clear the dishes, and after a token protest, she gives in.
As he places the last pot in the drying rack, he turns, finding her right beside him, leaning with her back against the counter, sipping her wine. And so he cannot help but take the opportunity to draw her close and kiss her softly.
He pulls away and they both smile. Taking her glass from her, he walks back to the table and pours more wine for both of them. When he turns back, she's gone and he finds her this time in the living room.
She is grinning and holding up a movie, some romantic comedy she has chosen, and he groans. But the truth is, he doesn't really care. Being here is enough.
She starts the movie, and then joins him on the couch, leaning against him.
He does not watch the movie, and later cannot remember even the basic plot. Instead, he watches her. The way her face lights up when she laughs at some line in the film. The way her fingers play unconsciously with the hem of his shirt until they slip just underneath to rest against his skin. The way that, as the evening darkens into night, she moves more and more into his space until they are more or less lying on the couch, her head against his shoulder. He is in this position before he realizes it, and he can't help but admire her tactics. Clever.
And it is in this moment that it occurs to him that this relationship may be more than the physical attraction that drew them together, more than two lonely people who happened to find each other. That it may be more than he ever imagined he'd find again.
He opens his eyes, and is not surprised to find that he is crying.
He remembers how easy that night was. He remembers every detail that matters – the slight thrill he felt just before he knocked on her door, her warm eyes as he brushed her hand across the table, the taste of wine on her lips. He remembers the simplicity of dinner and a movie. Easy.
He does not know how long he has been lying here. Time has ceased to exist in this darkness.
The cold floor feels like ice against his head, and he struggles to sit up. But he cannot manage to raise more than his shoulders, and he collapses again. They will be back for him soon anyway, and the struggle seems pointless now.
He closes his eyes once more.
He glances down at the woman who has now fallen asleep against him, effectively preventing him from moving. But it doesn't matter, he has no desire to go anywhere.
Instead, he smiles and slips his arms around her and holds her close.