Title: Vice
Author: Girl Who Writes
Rating: G
Characters:
Sawyer, Claire and Aaron
Summary:No one even knows what she was running from.
Disclaimer: Not mine - they belong to JJ Abrams and the ABC.
Notes:
It's been awhile :) Another entry for lostfichallenge at livejournal. No prompt, just my crazy, angsty imagination. I was thinking of writing a post-island S/C series of vignettes detailing their life. Would anyone be interested in reading it?

Oh, and for people who have been asking, Transience is coming along nicely, but is taking a lot more time than I thought it would. Hopefully the first chapter will be posted in the next ten days, depending on when I get my laptop back.

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He stands by the graves and wishes for the first time in weeks that he had a cigarette. He ran out years ago, but the craving stayed with him. His vice was smoking, and by God, it stayed with him long after he stubbed out his last.

He remembers the first time he stood here; Boone was dead and he had to pulled the Doc away from Locke before he went back to his shelter and picked up a book and lit his cigarette; back then there was more than a box left.

The second time was Sticks; Shannon, with a red hole where her heart used to be, and he found a bent cigarette in the pocket of his jeans. He didn't stand by the grave though. He sat in the bunker and took long drags whilst Freckles was off doing her thing.

Aren't any cigarettes left now, and he's sorta glad there's nothing to take his mind off the deep, nagging pain in his gut. Because in front of him, in the crudely dug hole, is the little Mamacita; little Claire, who looks like an angel who's fallen asleep, her head lolling against her shoulder like a doll. Her face and lips are white, and there's no blood. Isn't usually any blood when someone takes a fall in the jungle, breaks their neck.

No one even knows what she was running from.

The empty cigarette boxes are languishing about in his shelter. He's been cured of his vice by force. By an island where money doesn't matter, and his cigarette didn't last the day.

He jerks back to reality, focusing on the little blonde boy who releases his hand and kneels by the body of his mama, patting her cheek with his hand. If they were anywhere else but Craphole Island, the kid's intimacy with death - Boone, Shannon, Michael, Charlie, Ana - might have scarred him in some way. But here, as Jack talks in a voice laden with exhaustion and regret, he's sorta glad Claire's boy can kiss his mother good bye as she's dropped into a hole in the ground, and somehow manage to carry on.

God knows he didn't when his own mama was shot in the face.

Claire's body is lowered gently in. Sun took the time to brush her hair all night, and wipe her face, and make sure she looked all nice when Aaron came to say good bye.

The kid will stay with him; that's just how it will be. He taught Aaron to read from one of Shannon's old Cosmos; he found Aaron his first grubby teddy bear and he looked after Claire as best as he could when there aren't any bullets left for the guns and all the knives have gone rusty.

History is repeating itself, and he will be damned if he turns around in fifteen years -if they get off the bloody island, that is - and find out that Aaron's scramming pretty ladies for their housekeeping money. He'll stick around and if it all fucks up in the end, he ain't the kid's father, so it doesn't matter.

The little boy returns to his side, gripping his hand tight, his little eyes red as Sun tosses white island flowers in after his mother. He doesn't believe in heaven or any of that guardian angels shit, but maybe Claire can see them and know he'll tell lie after lie to keep Aaron safe.

He's got nothing to throw into Claire's grave as he carries her baby back to the beach, where there are no cigarettes.