[George] Day 14: Early Arrival (open tag)
Jun. 9th, 2006 12:18 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sinanju.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
crossing_lostrpThey reached the crash site almost immediately on the morning of their third day on the trail. The late start after Amanda's attack had put them behind schedule. They probably could have pushed on to the crash site yesterday if they'd been willing to keep moving after dark--it was that close. George was surprised to discover that the wreckage of the private jet was in the jungle. She'd expected it to be on the beach; that's where the transmitter team had found Faith and Mara. When she asked about it, Faith explained that she and Mara had moved away from the crash site by the time they encountered the other survivors.
The jet was missing its wings, torn away in the crash, but the fuselage was mostly intact. It looked nothing like the wreckage of Oceanic 815, scattered across literally miles of sand and jungle. A gap in the jungle canopy showed where the jet had come down, though the foliage had already begun to recover. Plants around the wreckage had already begun to envelop it. Within months, maybe only weeks, the jet would be nearly invisible.
George had seldom been so glad to arrive at her destination. Two days and two nights on the trail had given the group some time to calm down and regain their emotional balance. Still, it hadn't been much fun. Making camp the first night had been awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. Conversation had been minimal, carefully polite and slightly formal. The arguments weren't brought up again, but neither were they forgotten. The fight wasn't over, just in abeyance. It reminded George much too much of life with her family. That wasn't an association she cared for.
She wasn't the only one who found the atmosphere unpleasant. Anyone who wasn't taking a watch had generally turned in early, claiming exhaustion. If George's experience was anything to go by, most of them had laid awake for a long time afterward. She'd spent a lot of time cuddled up to Carlos, neither of them speaking much. It was the first night they'd spent together without making love.
George had been both disappointed and relieved, and she thought Carlos had been equally ambivalent. She'd certainly felt desire at times, but never when Carlos seemed to share the mood--and vice versa. They couldn't have gotten much closer otherwise, though. No sex, but Carlos couldn't seem to get enough of touching her, as if he still didn't quite believe deep down that she was recovered from Amanda's butchery. Not that George minded; she found being wrapped up in him just as comforting for her.
The second day had been better, though George was still aware of the unresolved tensions. Nor was she the only one. Everyone seemed to be making an effort. There was more conversation, and even some joking around. Carlos had acquired one of Mara's notepads and spent his spare time writing in it. George was curious about it, but hadn't asked. He'd share it with her when he was ready, or not.
That night she and Carlos made love again, quietly. The camp was much smaller and there was much less privacy even than in the main camp. The sex was slow and gentle, and not just because they were trying to be quiet. It was as much for comfort as for pleasure this time. There would be plenty of laughing and tickling and mock struggles and joyful experimentation in the future. Just--not this night.
George was in a much better mood this morning as a result. But reaching the crash site was still a welcome relief from the last two days' tension. Now everyone could do what they'd come here to do. Those who chose to stay could set up a campsite of their own, and those planning to return could do that.
George had been pleased to discover that when Carlos packed up their things the entrenching tool she'd borrowed from Blaise in anticipation of digging up the bodies had been among them. She'd stuffed it into the backpack she was wearing, keeping it handy. She looked over at Faith. "So, where did you bury them?"
The jet was missing its wings, torn away in the crash, but the fuselage was mostly intact. It looked nothing like the wreckage of Oceanic 815, scattered across literally miles of sand and jungle. A gap in the jungle canopy showed where the jet had come down, though the foliage had already begun to recover. Plants around the wreckage had already begun to envelop it. Within months, maybe only weeks, the jet would be nearly invisible.
George had seldom been so glad to arrive at her destination. Two days and two nights on the trail had given the group some time to calm down and regain their emotional balance. Still, it hadn't been much fun. Making camp the first night had been awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. Conversation had been minimal, carefully polite and slightly formal. The arguments weren't brought up again, but neither were they forgotten. The fight wasn't over, just in abeyance. It reminded George much too much of life with her family. That wasn't an association she cared for.
She wasn't the only one who found the atmosphere unpleasant. Anyone who wasn't taking a watch had generally turned in early, claiming exhaustion. If George's experience was anything to go by, most of them had laid awake for a long time afterward. She'd spent a lot of time cuddled up to Carlos, neither of them speaking much. It was the first night they'd spent together without making love.
George had been both disappointed and relieved, and she thought Carlos had been equally ambivalent. She'd certainly felt desire at times, but never when Carlos seemed to share the mood--and vice versa. They couldn't have gotten much closer otherwise, though. No sex, but Carlos couldn't seem to get enough of touching her, as if he still didn't quite believe deep down that she was recovered from Amanda's butchery. Not that George minded; she found being wrapped up in him just as comforting for her.
The second day had been better, though George was still aware of the unresolved tensions. Nor was she the only one. Everyone seemed to be making an effort. There was more conversation, and even some joking around. Carlos had acquired one of Mara's notepads and spent his spare time writing in it. George was curious about it, but hadn't asked. He'd share it with her when he was ready, or not.
That night she and Carlos made love again, quietly. The camp was much smaller and there was much less privacy even than in the main camp. The sex was slow and gentle, and not just because they were trying to be quiet. It was as much for comfort as for pleasure this time. There would be plenty of laughing and tickling and mock struggles and joyful experimentation in the future. Just--not this night.
George was in a much better mood this morning as a result. But reaching the crash site was still a welcome relief from the last two days' tension. Now everyone could do what they'd come here to do. Those who chose to stay could set up a campsite of their own, and those planning to return could do that.
George had been pleased to discover that when Carlos packed up their things the entrenching tool she'd borrowed from Blaise in anticipation of digging up the bodies had been among them. She'd stuffed it into the backpack she was wearing, keeping it handy. She looked over at Faith. "So, where did you bury them?"
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