Title: Negative Space
Rating: PG
Summary: Her legs feel wobbly, her head feels clogged. She feels like she’s walking in fog, like she can’t see very far in front of her.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. At all. I wish, but alas...
Author's Note: For halfdutch’s birthday. I tossed a coin, and Claire won. ;) Set during 'Maternity Leave'.



Claire runs her fingers over the top of the dresser, touching it gingerly, running the tips of her fingernails over the sharp edges, the corners. She moves on, does the same to the crib, to the rocking chair. Her legs feel wobbly, her head feels clogged. She feels like she’s walking in fog, like she can’t see very far in front of her.

Finding herself at the foot of the bed, she touches the edge of the mattress, covered by a comforter. She pushes down on it a few times before sitting, before bouncing on it a few times. She looks around her, at the beautiful furniture, at the vibrant, happy colors.

She feels happy. Doesn’t she? She’s sure she will when the fog lifts, when she doesn’t feel like her head is full of water, like her body is made of jello.

She scoots back as far as she can, until she's sitting in the middle of the bed, leaning back against the long headboard. She takes a deep breath and lets it go. She relaxes a little and lets herself smile. She doesn’t see how a place like this could be dangerous, how panicking will do any good, so she does her best to keep herself calm by running her hand over her large stomach, by talking to the baby and telling it that everything is going to be alright, that Mommy will keep it safe.

Curiosity takes over and she reaches to her side, runs her fingers over the bedside table the way she had the dresser, the rocking chair. Her fingers find the drawer and slowly draw it open. Inside she finds a brand new composition notebook, its stark black and white surface making it stand out from the pure white drawer, and next to it a pen. She draws it out and finds that there is an octagon in its center, and, in the center of that, a snake wrapped around a staff.

Pushing the drawer closed, she begins to leaf through the empty notebook, holding it in one hand, and the pen in the other. Oceanic Airlines, the pen has on its side. It sounds familiar, Claire thinks. But she can’t place from where, or when. She opens the notebook to the first page and pulls the cap off of the pen.

This is Claire. She starts out simply, then stops. She doesn’t know where to go from there. She must have a last name, but for some reason she can’t remember it. She can’t seem to remember much, like where she came from, where she is now. Ethan brought me here. She writes, because she remembers that.

I think there’s something wrong with the baby. I think I’m here because of that, because I need help. Because, why else would she be here? It has to be because of the baby. There is nothing wrong with her. Is there? Was that why she can’t remember so much?

She sighs and closed her eyes, presses the palm of her hand against her forehead and tries to drive out a dull throb. She is trying so hard to remember something, anything important. She opens the drawer again, puts the notebook and pen back inside, and closes it once more.

I need to sleep, she tells herself, pulling the blanket back and laying underneath it. She reaches over and turns the light off. The room is instantly dark, almost pitch black. The silence invades her senses, crawls up her spine, and makes her draw her legs close to herself.

It’s strange, she finds. Now that she can’t see, she finds herself too terrified to even move.

*

It’s the baby, she writes. It’s something to do with the baby. That’s why I’m here. They’re giving me injections. I don’t like them, but…

She pauses, leans back against the headboard of the bed. She wishes this weren’t so hard, that she could keep a thought in her head without loosing it. With a slow shake of her head she reaches for the glass of water on her bedside table, takes a slow drink and puts it back down.

THIS IS USELESS!!! She writes, in big, frustrated letters, before tossing the notebook into her lap and the pen along with it.

There’s a knock at the door, and Claire doesn’t know why, but she shoves the notebook and the pen underneath the blanket. The door opens a second later and Ethan walks inside with a smile. He sits on the side of her bed.

“I came to check on you,” he says. “How are you doing?”

Claire shrugs, and smiles. “Alright,” she answers. “I’m a little tired, though.”

Ethan nods. “It shouldn’t be much longer, Claire. You’re due any day now, and then everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

She nods slowly, casts her eyes down to the bed, and plays with the edge of the blanket. “I know,” she answers. He reaches over, lays his hand on top of hers. She looks up to see a kind smile, but she finds it hard to smile back. She does anyway.

“Can I have some more water?” she asks. Ethan’s smile grows a fraction of an inch, by so little that Claire questions if she actually saw his lip quirk up or not. He nods, almost enthusiastically, and picks the mostly-empty cup up from the surface of her bedside table.

“Of course,” he tells her. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves, and only when the door is fully closed behind him does Claire pull out her notebook. She opens it quickly, and hastily scribbles something before shoving the notebook and the pen in the drawer. She pulls the blanket up to her chest and lays down against the pillow.

The door opens again and Ethan sets the glass down. “There you go,” he says. Claire nods pleasantly, smiles, and says thank you. “You get some sleep.” She nods again and closes her eyes.

She hears Ethan shuffle out the door, close it behind him, and her eyes open again. She gazes at the water to the left of her head and sighs before she takes a drink. Her mind grows fatigued quickly and she lays her head down to the pillow once more.

But she can’t get the thought out of her mind, the one thought that has been with her all day, the thought that she had written hastily within the notebook and hidden away before, and it, were discovered.

I can’t give them my baby.

*

Ethan told me that I can go home, she scribbles. She’s not sure if she’s excited, or running on adrenaline, or just happy that things are finally starting to make sense. He explained everything. There are people waiting for me, my friends, and I get to go back to them, just as soon as the baby’s born.

She pauses, leans back against the headboard, and takes a deep breath. They’ll take care of the baby here. She knows they will. She trusts Ethan.

It’s better for the baby here, she writes. I know it’ll be safe.

She closes the notebook with a sense of completion, with a feeling of having come full circle. She knew that the baby had a good home here, a home with a crib, and a family and a life that she was sure that she couldn’t give him. Ethan had told her that it was her choice, and she knows that she’s made it.

In a few days, her baby will have a home, and she’ll be going back to hers. Everything was going to be fine.