Word count: 500
Characters: Jack Shephard, Claire Littleton
Rating: PG-13 for the setting
Timeline: Future-fic (after S3 finale)
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the TV show LOST and its components is owned by "American Broadcast Companies, Inc.", which reserves all rights therein.
The man – he has a long, unruly beard, cloudy eyes and a smell of distilled drinks that seems to follow him everywhere. The way he speaks, the way he moves, it’s all so American it hurts. He ignores the show, back turned to the stage; opts for concentrating on the ice cubes that clink in his glass. He wants the new girl.
The girl. Her name is Claire. She has a two-year-old; nothing else. Rumors say that she also has a lawsuit against an airline company, but that money never seems to come. The men like her a lot. They say it’s because she doesn’t look like a stripper.
She’s on stage, now. The audience whistles. This is one of the high moments of the night. Tonight she’s the high school baby (that’s a favourite), pigtails and lollipop and all.
She’s good at looking awkward. She really was, a few months ago. She got used to it by now. All of them do after a while. It’s just another job, after all. And it pays well. She’s not the only one with a boy to raise.
They call her name, and the American turns just as she pulls open her white button-up shirt. He turns back to his drink, disgusted more than aroused. Family, or very very gay.
She spreads her legs a moment before the light goes down. The audience is still cheering as she runs backstage. I tell the man she’s going to talk to him now. He nods impatiently and downs what’s left of his whisky, walking to the secluded table I indicate to him. I’m supposed to stand guard from here. He could mean trouble, she could mean trouble, either of them, both of them; I’ve been here for too long to expect it from everyone.
She passes by me, tying the knot of her robe and muttering what’s he doing here; the last thing I’m able to hear (and it was actually half-hearing, half-deduction) was “How did you find me?”, then she sits beside him and they talk in whispers, heads so low their foreheads almost touch.
He seems to complain about the place, gesturing around. You shouldn’t be here, that’s the basic idea. She protests, still whispering, and her argument must hurt because he breaks into tears. He holds her hands and begs her – what, I don’t know. My head fills the blanks: he’s the boy’s father, wants her to go to America with him now that the official wife kicked his drunken ass. She shakes her head no, wipes his tears (hers are there, too). A few more mumbled words, a gesture to the security guy at the door and then he’s gone, worse than he was when he arrived.
Claire dashes by me on the way to the backrooms. Her make-up is all blurred, hands trembling. “Who was that?”, I ask.
She swallows a sob before answering, “I don’t know anymore”, then sighs resignately and adds, “Put his drink on my tab.”