Work Text:
Shannon got under Jin’s skin; that was the only way to say it. He had always been attracted to white women—not as much as Korean women, but enough—and Shannon was something of his ideal: lithe but statuesque, utterly feminine but with a rare but look of determination that might stop a man’s heart. But even though Shannon exuded a powerful sexuality—walked with it, talked with it, breathed with it—and even though it seemed to control her at times, that wasn't at all who she really was.
Shannon got under Jin’s skin because she was beautiful but also because she was absolutely lost. He had an almost violent desire sometimes to hold her tightly until she flailed her arms and cursed, until she finally gave in and let someone talk to her as if they were both human beings. He wasn’t so stupid that he was unaware of his fantasies, of what her little bikini did to his mind and his body. But even if he hadn’t been married, he would never actually want to lay a hand on her. It was better to briefly imagine her long legs wrapped around him, or occasionally let himself wonder what noises she would make if he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist and slid his hand down the front of her bathing suit.
He was happy with making love to his wife. He had no need for pining after an unhappy American woman with a warm smile—when she bothered to show it—and a body more beautiful than she treated it as if it were. She was more than this anger and flirtation, and she probably had no idea. He said that to Sun, once, and she smiled at him indulgently for a moment, recognizing that he was fascinated with Shannon. It was something he would never allow her, an innocent almost-crush like this, but he kept it in his own heart anyway. After her smile faded, Sun had said that Shannon didn’t care about herself because, probably, nobody had ever cared for her. But Boone had; Jin could easily see right through his anger and frustration. Besides, a person’s self worth had to come from somewhere inside or it wasn’t real. Jin did not say these things, only nodded solemnly at Sun and kissed her forehead.
*
Jin hated fishing, not because it in itself was loathsome, but because it carried too much baggage for him. He couldn't enjoy the beauty of the sea sometimes, or the joy of the struggle with the fish. One morning, he was up early fishing, before the sun was too strong and before he could be pestered by people who didn’t know his language. Under a sky that was only a pale, almost fuzzy gray-blue, standing waist-deep in water, Jin looked back to the shore for a moment and saw a figure that might have been a ghost but wasn’t. Shannon stood outside her shelter, with in a white hooded sweatshirt thrown over a pair of shorts and a tank top. She was watching him curiously, but she didn’t dare come closer to him, and he didn’t dare make a welcoming motion to such a woman with endless legs and blonde hair that seemed to float on the wind. He knew he was being foolishly romantic; he knew it was a stupid attitude; he knew she wanted nothing of the kind from him. He had no idea what it was she did want, but he could guess what she needed, and for some reason, more than the polite gestures from the others, this silent plea combined with out of the ordinary interest charmed him.
This happened for three mornings in a row, and although he liked knowing she was there, serene and watching him and the ever-churning ocean without condescension or flirtation, he decided he had to do something. That third day, he took his first batch of fish to her, wrapped in palm leaves. Looking up from her magazine, she frowned. As much as Shannon pretended that she was helpless, she was also apt to resent anyone helping her. With a gesture, Jin told her to take it. When she frowned again, it wasn’t meant to be ungracious. She only looked confused and perhaps a little disgusted at the smell of the raw fish. Jin untied the package and laid the fish back open, showing her that he’d removed the bones. Shannon smiled then, cocking her head to the side. She pointed at the fish, then tentatively to her mouth. Jin simply pointed at the bonfire down the beach.
Her mouth wanted to form a word. He had no idea what that word would sound like, but it would mean why?. However, she simply said one of the few English phrases he’d learned: “Thank you.” Not knowing the proper response, he bowed and went back to his fishing.
He knew that her brother had cooked the fish and they had eaten it. When he saw her later that night, she smiled at him, genuinely, and despite her lack of substantial clothing, Jin was finally able to see her clearly, as a real human being. It was hard to do that when you didn’t speak the language. You could watch all day and understand motives, but until you could speak with a person, they carried a level of unreality and fuzziness, almost like a character in a movie. In gestures and in strange, wordless, and brief looks, Shannon had become a lot less blurry. This possible clarity about her could be dangerous; she might become so much a person to him that he couldn’t help but be completely and utterly distracted by her. She was lovely and needy and strong. Breathing deeply, he went back to his own lovely, needy, but strong wife.
*
The next morning as Jin went about his fishing, deciding whom he might gift with a meal that wasn’t boar or fruit, she did not come. He imagined that maybe she had seen him anyway, had poked her head out of her shelter and watched him working as she had other mornings, like some sculptured marble angel standing guard, blessing his daily return to the job and life he’d left behind. But she had not shown herself, and he did not expect her to anymore.
When he planted himself in front of the rocks that were exposed at low tide and began to take his fish out of the basket he’d made, so that he could one by one clean them and remove their bones, it was the time he most hated being here and doing this again. It seemed utterly primitive. He’d never felt that when he was young, but after being away from it for so many years, it was repellent but too familiar to be all that weird, just as it was that day he returned to his father after so long to ask his forgiveness. He’d humbled himself, then, and while it had wiped something inside him clean, it had also confused him until he couldn’t see what path lay ahead of him. He never really had regained his footing. Maybe, here in this island, he would be forced to.
He heard the steps first, then she was suddenly standing in front of his rocks, her body covered, for once, in a blue t-shirt, one of her brother’s, and a pair of knee-length khaki shorts. He squinted up at her, furrowing his brow. With a tentative smile, she pointed first to her chest, then to her eyes, then to him, then to the fish in his hand. She was talking as she said it, and she looked halfway embarrassed, but she didn't leave, only stood there vaguely impatient, as if she were waiting for an answer. He could only give her a confused face, whereupon she repeated her actions and sat down across from him on the damp sand.
He had no idea what it was she wanted to see, but he went about his work, trying to be undeterred by this insistent, strange girl. With a frown and great concentration, she watched the movement of his hands as he went through the process with three fishes. As he picked up a fourth, he saw her hand shoot out toward the basket. He covered the basket with his hands to indicate for her to stop. She sighed and in the same instant, he decided that she’d made up her mind and he wouldn't stop her. However, there was only a small chance she actually knew how to handle a fish without its scales slicing her skin. He returned his own fish to the basket and withdrew it slowly, showing her. Grimacing, Shannon did likewise, and after quite an effort, she managed to not only handle the fish but prepare it to be eaten, even using the small knife that Locke had given him to remove its head.
He had no idea what she might do next, but she simply took a large leaf from the pile beside him, crudely wrapped her fish, and stood, saying, “Thank you.” This she did most mornings after—pulling one fish from the basket and cleaning it—and Jin tried not to feel guilty for letting her do it herself and for feeling the compulsion to catch an extra fish for her every day. It was, however, easy to do, because he wasn’t catching it for a long-legged American girl but for the knowing figure that occasionally still presided over his morning fishing, peering at him over her books and magazines, waiting her turn at doing something useful, at least for herself.
What he told his wife, however, was that it was one fish he didn’t have to clean.