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Final Destination
by Nicola
Rating: PG
Spoilers: #2.06, 'Abandoned'
"What were you expecting?" Boone asked mirthlessly, as he took in her expression of resentful disbelief.
"I don't know! Fluffy white clouds, angels in satin robes"—with an exasperated sigh, Shannon made strumming hand movements—"harps!" Petulantly, she recalled her 4th grade nativity play, when she'd been passed over to play one of the angels. With a sideways glance, she saw Boone smirk.
"Remember Miss Davies' class?" he said. "Who did you end up playing?"
"Mary," she muttered mutinously. "The Virgin fucking Mary. The other girls got to wear pretty white robes and I had to—"
Without warning, Shannon lurched backwards. She felt like something had been hooked inside her chest; her breath sucked out. She fell to the ground, hard. She felt Sayid's hands clinging to her body, the chill of rain, wet mud sliding under her.
And then—nothing.
She blinked. She was on the ground, but it was dry sand beneath her. It was Boone's arms that wrapped around her shoulders, gently lifting her to her feet.
"That bitch!" She gasped out the words, though the sharp pain in her chest had vanished. "She shot me."
When Boone let go of her, she staggered slightly, but he did not reach out to steady her. "It takes a while," he said. She turned to look at him and saw that his eyes had become dull and unreadable. "Sometimes I still feel it," he continued, blankly. "Something pushing on my chest. This . . . unmovable thing." His gaze flickered as he met her eyes briefly. "You get used to it. It gets . . . easier."
She drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. It felt normal. There was a light breeze, she could hear it rustling through the trees that lined the beach. She reached out, grasping Boone's arm, her fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist. He felt . . . warm. Solid. There.
She gazed out to sea. The clouds hung low in the sky, and fog rose from the water's surface to meet them, creating a swirling mass of impenetrable grey. She squinted into the distance, wondering if she could make out the faint outline of another island. A different island—one where a woman named Ana-Lucia (instinctively, she knew the name) was screaming inside—one where people laughed and wept and . . . lived.
"It's not there. You won't find it. I looked for days before I realized . . ." he trailed off, and she broke in—
"It's gone."
"No," he corrected softly. "We're gone."
She wheeled around suddenly, pressing closer to him. "Why are you here? Why haven't you"—the phrase came to her from a hundred crappy movies—"moved on?"
"I was waiting for you." His mouth twisted bitterly. "I spent my whole life waiting for you and I'm still—"
She pressed her mouth to his, silencing him. As she kissed him, for the first time she became aware of how precarious the ground felt beneath her feet. It was pushing out from under her, the same way the sky seemed moments away from falling. The voices intensified inside her head, whispering a storm of truths—those she wanted and those she didn't. She clung more tightly to Boone, breaking their kiss only to murmur:
"You wanted to tell me something." His final living moments had slipped inside her head, winding around her own memories. She knew what he'd said to Jack just before he'd died. Instinctively, she knew, too, that he was able to see moments from her final days. Sayid—her furious tirade against Locke—his own funeral—Sayid—that damn dog.
His lips—cold, suddenly, so cold; he tasted like rain—opened briefly against her mouth, before he moved to kiss her cheek, her temple, then her hairline. She shivered in his arms. His words were a whisper in her ear.
January 2006
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