A/N: Sort of S6 spoilers. Set sometime after the 'Substitute'.
Builds on thoughts around the S3 'I do' –scene; Kate's unwillingness / inability to say 'I love you', or to give herself away. Pointless story perhaps, but it's been brewing for a while and just had to come out. Something about those two that just seems completely hopeless and irredeemable and still there is a tenderness there in spite of everything.
Rated: NC- 17- (M) Mature content
Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Nothing
Unfinished
Her in his arms. And this is new.
He is raw and naked with her. Doesn't know why the hell it means so much, why the need to define it. This is new to him and hell, he's done a lot of things but he lacks the words for this. The insanity of them here, in captivity, in this ridiculous place. What has just happened. The absurdity that their desperation has led them too. And it's nothing compared to the unfamiliar, outlandish emotion she awakens in him.
Wants some kind of affirmation. He wants the words to go with. Needs the words. From her.
"Let me ask you something, freckles... When blockhead was beating on me, and you said 'I love you.' … That was just... to get him to stop, right? "
He hears how pathetic he sounds, and how he almost holds his breath awaiting her reply. This is not him. Not Sawyer. Sawyer that crushes hearts for breakfast - he wouldn't need the words. Wouldn't want them.
This is for James. For that boy that he can hardly remember. For that man that he might have been. If things had been different.
Her answer. The lack of one.
She just reaches up, a silent kiss that has his nerves twitching and his heart contracting tightly. Needs the words. But he won't get them. Not from her.
"I love you, too." he says, pulling her close, as if it doesn't matter. That she didn't say it. And maybe to show her that it doesn't have to be that hard.
It's been months since she last saw him. Months.
But she had gone years without him. And she had survived that. It had been easier to live apart from him during those three years than across the yard at the barracks for a few days. The gulf of separation wider. The alienation total.
And it is all over. Can never be.
They think he's joined Locke. Only she still has her doubts about it. The Sawyer she knows is not a follower. Has never been. But perhaps he's not that man anymore.
She squats by the stream, filling her water bottle. Because she is not a follower either. Not any longer. She has combed this island for months. For Claire. Only it isn't really Claire anymore – someone else. Some feral creature creeping about at the periphery of her vision, never revealing herself. But she has seen the shadows darting by. Imagines she's heard her soft padding footsteps across the jungle floor. She has felt someone's eyes on her neck at night, lying there alone next to her camp fire.
So she waits.
Waits for Claire to come out. To make contact. Because she knows it won't happen without Claire's permission. Claire's decision. And she waits, for as long as it takes.
She waits.
She puts the water container down next to her. Washes her hands and face perfunctory only. She doesn't care anymore. Who cares if she is striped with grime and dirt? If her tattered cargo-pants are giving way in the seams, dirty and threadbare at the knees and around her ass? No one, that's who. No one.
The others are fighting their stupid war. It has nothing to do with her. She is here for one thing only. Ironic. That she'd end up being the only one with a purpose.
The crunching of leaves and twigs behind her, startles her. She flies up, hand on the gun she keeps tucked into the waistband of her trousers.
And he, he lumbers out.
A drab figure against the brilliant green of the jungle. His clothes as dishevelled and dirty as hers, and his head, shaved close to his skull, like a prisoner. His eyes are vacant and he looks nothing like the man she'd abandoned back at the barracks. It's been so long. He seems more like an apparition, a figment of her imagination than anything else.
"You here?" he grunts, as if he's not used to talking. As if his voice hasn't been used for months. And it doesn't make it anymore real. It's a bland greeting. He hardly looks at her, just throws his bundle on the ground and crouches beside her near the edge of the stream. His boots half submerged in water, his jeans riding up as he bends down, grubby, almost black around the hem. The back of his shirt, stained dark by sweat between the shoulder blades. He wipes perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand. The muggy tropical heat bringing it right back again.
He looks like a monk. And maybe that's the whole idea. The shape of his skull, rounded at the back and the millions of little short dark-blonde hairs covering it, glimmering like the fur of a seal pup in the sunlight. She looks at him from the corner of her eye. Wanting for some stupid reason to touch his head, to feel the soft coarseness of that stubble under her hand. Make sure that he is not a ghost. The loneliness playing tricks on her mind.
He glances at her, quickly. Angry, murky shadows etched under his eyes, the skin greyish under the disguise of the warm golden tan. He cups his palms, scooping up the cold opalescent water, splashing it on his face, his neck, the crown of his head. Rubbing at it irritably, not caring that he's wetting the entire front of his shirt.
And she can't help staring at him. Can't resist staring at those hands, his knuckles with their scrapes and cuts, a dark web of dirt in the cracks that no amount of water can wash off. His long beautiful fingers. The droplets of water splattering, thousands of little brilliant prisms falling around them.
He gets up hastily, wiping his hands on his jeans. As if he needs to be somewhere. Urgently.
"See you around Kate..."
He turns to take the few steps up the slanting edge of the creak, jumping on the large slabs of stone there.
"You leaving?"
He stops, one long leg up on a boulder the other beneath. Stay. Stay with me.
"Yeah. Why, what would you have me do here?"
"Stay," she says quietly, not knowing why. She never asks, never begs. And to her astonishment, he nods curtly and sets his pack back down.
They build a fire together, under silence. She glances up at him every now and then, but he never looks at her. Never meets her eyes. The skin of his neck pale and unexposed to the sun, in sharp contrast to the honey colour of his face. The stubble casting a dark shadow around mouth and chin. The hard lines and the disoriented set of his jaw; new. Unsure. Uncertain. Lost.
Her panic building up inside. She can't do this. She can't make it all go away. Juliet.
She can't make it better.
They share the meagre supplies they have. And not a single word is exchanged. She can only watch him. All those things unsaid. Better left like that. And the distance is wider than ever, the deep rift, bottomless. Unsurpassable.
He was never hers to begin with.
Those words that she could never say to him. They've sat there so long, they've struck down roots. Stubbornly fused to her mouth; barbed and prickly and painful. Time has done nothing to grind away at the jagged edges. They still sit there, chafing, impossible to part with.
But he.
This excruciatingly beautiful man with his long lithe fingers. Must have said those words a hundred times, a thousand times. Lying in bed in that afterglow, that lazy drawl he has. Must have said it to woman after woman after woman. To rear them in, get them hooked, to screw them over. Words rolling off his tongue like butter. Fat, slick and easy. – And worthless.
And she wonders if hers are more valuable. Just because they've never been used – with him.
Her truth with its thorns out, wedged permanently at the back of her mouth, refusing to leave. It remains there, chokes her, making it hard to breathe for the pain. She watches him, sitting there across from her, staring grimly into the fire. Her truth, with its frightened claws, burrowing into the tender insides of her cheeks.
Those words she could never part with.
Not now – not ever. Her truth – insignificant as it is now. It's all she's got. Stubborn and stupid and impossible to shove away. Even though she knows - that she is not enough for him. Not enough for anyone.
He pulls out a blanket and spreads it on a spot opposite the fire. Doesn't say goodnight, doesn't say anything. Just lies down on his side and closes his eyes. Arms crossed over his chest as if he's holding himself. Face scrunched up. A hard, worn face.
She wishes she'd been different. Not afraid. He might have been hers now. Not hurting on the other side of a blazing fire. Unapproachable.
But it's too late. She can't make this better.
She prepares her own sleeping mat on her side and follows suit. Heart and head pounding, heavy with all a sorrow that isn't hers. She can see his face there, across the fire. The blood-orange and cardinal-red of the flames licking at him.
She'd do anything for a word from him. Just one word. For him to say that it will be alright. That it will pass.
Would do anything not to be who she is.
---------------
She must have nodded off. She wakes up reaching for her gun instinctively. Someone's there, someone leaning over her. She is confused and half asleep.
And it's him.
Like a large dog, circling her bed-mat until he lies down, pushing her limbs away to make space for himself. The soft crunching sound of grass and leafs under his nervous movements. Without a word. Lifts her head up on his shoulder, as if she were just a rag doll, a teddy bear for his comfort. And maybe she is.
He exhales warmly in her hair, tucking her closer. Fidgety, a bundle of strung-up nerves. Knees knocking into knees, his chin hitting her head. Elbows poking into ribs. Fingers touching her arms, caressing her wrists. Not finding a comfortable position. Not seeming to get near enough. He tugs at her, pulls at her with both hands until he has hauled her on top of him.
That's when he looks at her.
For the first time. In months. And she almost wishes he hadn't. His eyes, those eyes, the wretchedness, the realignment of the truth. The lies that they tell themselves. The; I don't want you. Denying the craving.
The air is stiflingly warm even at night. The humidity oppressive or maybe it's him here. Unexpected closeness that she doesn't know what to make of. Her inadequacy drowns her, pushes her down, engulfs her. And she can't do anything about that crippling grief. She isn't enough. Isn't what he wants.
He smells like anguish.. And it's too much, too much.
His dry warm hand on her neck. A gesture both soothing and forceful at the same time. Ambiguous – like she is – like they are. At the base of her nape where the little wisps of hair give way to smooth liquid skin. He holds her there, the calluses of his fingers scratching at her as he slides them warily up and down her neck. His breath hot on her face.
Comforting him or comforting her.
She; same as him. Damaged and dented in exactly the same way. But not quite the same.
Someone must have loved him. At one point – maybe early enough to shape him - someone must have loved him, filled him up. Made him whole, unbroken, in one piece. But no one has ever loved her like that. No one has ever bothered – found her worthy. Not her mother. No one.
Her forehead resting against his. His lips just a slip away, cracked from the constant sun. Head against head, just resting there as if this is how it was supposed to be. As if this is what he wants.
Her.
She doesn't dare to move. Doesn't dare to look at him. Afraid he'll realise how empty she is and it will all disappear. His fingers sighing on her skin, on her neck, her throat, in her hair, stealing across her face. She feels them trace her eyebrows, follow the arch of her nose, outline her lips. Fingertips mumbling, murmuring and she can't hear what they say. Doesn't understand what they want from her.
He smells like earth and forest and despair.
And her own fingers across his scalp, the millions of little hair standing up in attention. That's real. That's no lie. The stretching to kiss him there, on the top of the crown, the soft prickle of his stubble against her lips. His chaste kiss on her chin. That's real too. The innocence of his rounded head between her hands. Beautiful. Impossible. Real enough to make you cry.
She lifts her face up, drawing it away from him, but the hand on her neck doesn't allow a wide breach. Just wide enough to look at her. Stare at her. Eyes, the dark slate of a threat, wide open – glaring at her. Burrowing right through her. Unblinkingly, unflinchingly.- Do you love me?
"I'm not her," she mumbles uselessly.
She can't make him better. Can't make it go away.
"I am not her," she repeats. Her only defence.
"No you ain't." The sound of him. Cool facade but she feels him disintegrating right below the surface. Sees the dust from the pulverized interior, seeping out.
"I can't be…not like her." Can't speak those words. The words that seem to come so easily for others. Can't. She isn't enough, not what he needs.
"I know." His hand running up and down the little bare stretch of her neck as if testing the waters. The faint hint of lemongrass on him. The biting his lip as if wavering and the softening of his stare.
"I am no good for you."
"I know." His voice deep in his throat as he rears her back in. Down to him.
"Why do you still….why, why me?" She hates how the words come out all wrong. In short clipped gasps. But that's what happens when he pulls her down like that. Hand firm on her nape. Nose touching nose. The flutter of eyelashes tickling her skin. The rubbing his cheek against hers. The abrasion of his unshaved chin on hers. The needing to get closer. Closer than possible.
His mouth that moves against hers, not kissing, just moves as if practicing what to say. What to answer. An impossible question. A love as fragile as gossamer, as flighty as air. The only true thing, the soundless gusts of his breath against her lips. And then:
"Damned if I know..."
And just like that. The barricades collapse, brittle and old. Made of feeble stuff, crumbling all around them.
Grip around her neck hardening, forcing her mouth to meet his. Greedy, avaricious, single-minded. She gives in to the sorrow, the wanting him. Lets his lips drag her down beneath the surface, lets him wash over her. The taste of him. Of penitence and life. And she thinks, she'll never survive this. It hurts too much. It means too much.
Not enough.
But nothing matters. Not with his tongue like that, the urgency, the teeth that clash into hers. The deluge of things held back too long. The insurrection of heart against mind. You. You. Make it go away. Make this better. You. Foreheads knocking together, soft skin against bristle, noses rubbing against, sneaking into crevices, behind ears, into hair. You. Lips and hands. Everywhere. Can't get close enough. You. You.
Save me.
And she half expects him to come to his senses. But no. No, there is no sense in this. Just hands, ablaze, fluid like hot oil, reaching, snatching, grabbing, stealing. The desperation of ripping at buttons, tugging at zippers, fighting with clothing. His fingernails sharp and needy against her belly . Scurrying to tug her shirt up. Whispering on her skin like only fingers can. You. You. You. His lips bittersweet, the tongue that unravels her, strips the fear away. Peeling the fabric up above her ribs, scuttling hands tearing at the cloth. The long fingers, that want to hold everything, want to touch everything. Cannot find it. Cannot get close enough. The top gets stuck around her head and he wrenches it off impatiently hurting her ears in the process, her hair falling out in a mess across her face. Hurried as if afraid that someone will walk in on them. That someone might see him with her.
That he might change his mind.
He brushes her hair away anxiously, angrily, huffily. Jerky, fast movements, his wrist sweeping by her cheek ineptly. Soft there. His skin tender like a child's. His hands not finding peace. Clumsy and awkward, darting over her. Not getting close enough, wanting to be everywhere. Flitting across her skin. His palms sliding against the back of her thighs, fingers spread wide, smoothening the fabric down. Below her buttocks. Rounding the curve. Restless. Like he knows what he wants. She kicks with her legs to try to rid herself of the trousers. And his hands. His hands. Everywhere. Slipping, sliding, gliding. You.
Make it go away. Make it better.
He grapples fretfully behind her, pulling harder than he has to, tense hands fumbling until he manages to snap open her bra. He wrestles her out of the straps and flings it quickly behind his head as if the weight of it is too heavy. And oh. Oh. She comes undone. The gentle lift of his hands, warm and large. You, you. Fingers drawing, painting, circling, taking the tight curves not caring if he crashes. The shame over this. Over wanting him like this. His lips parted, exacting his claim on her. Equal measures of sadness and want.
Gruffly yanking at the straps of her underwear. Impatient, uneasy fingers digging into her hips. Like this is not what he wants. But he wants. At least right now – right now -with her here. And him, beneath her, in full armour, wrinkled cotton shirt and grubby jeans against the smoothness of her. He's even got his boots on. There is no dignity in this. But the want is here. His and hers. A matching pair. His hunger feeding her shame.
It isn't right. And it's exactly how it ought to be.
Fingers leading the way, lips following right behind. And the longing - it kills her. The never getting close enough. The fear of not being what he wants. Who he wants.
But he smells like earth and life and something real. He is real. This is no illusion.
He tangles his hands in her hair, winds the long strands into messy tresses around his fists and pulls her upwards slightly, hard but not painful, so that he can see her clearly. She looks down, to where they intersect with each other. She can't help it and his gaze follows hers. Surprised. As if wondering how they ended up like this. Her pale thighs against the coarse fabric of his jeans. The abrasiveness of his jeans against her nakedness. Heat radiating from the junction, imploring, pleading. Beseeching..
"Come closer…" she says. Needs to to stop the spinning. Find some stable ground.
It is dark, the fire is almost out. The insects and the soft rustle of the jungle, envelops them. The remnants of the fire, bashful golden sheen of the glowing coal lights up his face. And the way his chest rises and his heart quickens – it's too much. Too real. You. You. Make it better. His lips at the corner of her mouth, following the rise and descent of her upper lip. Teeth nipping at just the right moment.
The heat spreading in the trail of his fingers, no clothes left to hinder their flow. The uncertainty and feebleness of her longing replaced by something else.
Lust.
The gasps for air. His or hers. Who knows, who cares? The combustion in her belly and there at the core of her. The melancholy of them here.
Just the painful hesitant yearning, giving way to strident, unappeasable lust.
It surges forward, gushing ruby red and clamorous, pushing itself out in the open, all elbows and brawniness. Refuses to remain under wraps. Ignored, denied and held back for years. Guttural and raw, unrelenting. A breathless desire simmering under the surface amassing, expanding, accumulating. It spills out, a trickle first. Building up, impelling itself forward, outwards, increasing with an alarming force.
Bursting the dam wide open.
There is no place to hide. It's there. All around. Everywhere. And there is no place left for reason.
This is how it's supposed to be. If she were enough.
He hates himself. Hates her. This.
He was someone else's. She was never his.
But here she is. Painful and irresistible like wet fingers reaching for a socket. The current; the rush of heart-stopping ache.
Her skin against him. The unwanted tenderness she provokes in him. Her dark hair falling down around her shoulders, the shy pink of her breast peeking through the web of auburn. That sleek line that runs from her waist to her hips, curves down and disappears there between her legs. A map that wants to be followed. A map of nectar and honey. The salty fragrance of her. And follow it he does.
He releases her hair with one hand. His fingers roving down between her breasts, denying himself the detour, instead dipping at her bellybutton, up again at the flesh of her stomach. Her skin like milk. Like something that should be drunk, something intoxicating. Straying further still. Drifting. Finding her there. Soft and warm and his.
"Tell me!" he says as he notices with satisfaction how the air catches in her throat. He pushes her hair back brusquely, away from her shoulders with his other hand. Wants to see her, the splatter of freckles across her chest. Wants to make sure that it's her. Her whole body tense, bucking against him. She halts herself but he continues, because hell, he can't stop it. He wants to know. Has to hear her say it.
She throws her head back. Her neck long and white and exposed, as if she hasn't heard him. Chest rising and falling, as he caresses her. There. Her chin pointed and frail, skin scraped pink by his stubble. Her lips, he's kissed them red and swollen. And it seems surreal. Like something he's hallucinated up. Like none of those horrible things had ever happened. If only she'd say it.
But she doesn't answer.
Humiliating to love someone like this. Someone who isn't whole. Can't love you back the same way.
And he can't. Can't do this. Hates himself.
Still. The pull of her, even now, after all that has happened. Stronger than any rationale. He unfastens his jeans - opens them just enough. Not bothering taking anything off. Likes the sensation of her above him exposed and vulnerable and him fully clothed. The illusion of a shield against her unhinging influence.
He guides her down on him, holding her gaze steadily. Hand sliding in, making way. Daring her to look away. Daring her to run. She flexes involuntarily, making him exhale in surprise. Eyes glazing over, squinting. So long ago. And it's back to this. The edge of her teeth visible against her bottom lip, trying to hang on to some scrap of control. The heaviness of her lids and the round curvature of her breasts above him. The wonderful dip between them, like an arrow pointing down to her core. His hands flowing over skin, glossy and slick from perspiration - memorizing her. - Maybe this is goodbye?
And though moments ago he hated her, hated himself. He doesn't hate nobody now.
As it should be. The warmth of her. The sounds she make, enough to break his heart all over again.
And he is tumbling now, falling, crashing. Hurting himself as he plummets. Plunges to the depths of her. He knows this can't end well. There is no point. No – he can't. But just for a little while he lets go. The astounding combination of lean muscles and girlish softness against him. Moulds himself to her, so that no one can tell what is him and what is her. Imperfect and perfect together.
Soon enough there will be that awkward silence again. The hasty goodbye. The avoiding her eyes. Because he can't, and because she can't - doesn't know how to. She is too broken, too unloved, and no one can change that now - not even him. That's just how she is. This is selfish he knows. The wanting her. The wanting to be over Juliet. His hands clasping tightly, thumbs digging into her hipbones. But not close enough. Never close enough.
"Tell. Me. How. You. Feel."
A word with each thrust. He needs to hear it. He is such an idiot. As if this will make everything alright. Needs to hear it. From her. This with her inexplicable. Illogical. Irrational.
She lifts her weight up on her arms, holding herself there, silently. Slowing down their pace now as he feels the beginning of contractions against him. He grabs hold behind her hard narrow back with both hands, pulling her down flat against him, not wanting to come yet. Not wanting it to be over – just yet. Staving off that moment, when they will not be able to look each other in the eyes.
"I'm not…." It is all she has time to say before he hushes her with his mouth. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want to listen to reason. It is hard enough to make his own mind shut up.
"Schh..baby – schhh...
And there it is. Her whisper so faint he almost believes he's imagined it.
"You, you you…." She repeats it like a mantra, whispered against his mouth. The texture of her bottom lip against his upper. She smells like salt and the friction of her and him. Frighteningly real.
"Schh..." Riding out those waves eyes fastened on each other. One more defective than the other. And they come too, one after another. It leaves him feeling strangely unfulfilled. Twigs and branches digging into his back.
Not close enough.
"I want you to say it."
She looks down at him as if he's requested something outrageous. Unthinkable. Perhaps he has. She's hanging on her arms above him and he's still inside of her. Her thighs hard around his hips. Still gasping with the exertion. Her skin stretched over her clavicle bones - shiny with sweat. The taunting pink of her nipples above him, missing his lips. What could be more intimate than this?
But it's not enough.
She turns her eyes up, makes a childish grimace, mouth curving at the corners. Embarrassed. And it blows him away. After all this time. The shallowness of her – the scantiness of her. The big gapping hole that will never be filled with anything. Because it can't be. She is unfinished. Not whole.
She, who can unfold herself in front of him.. Her alter ego, who can move above him, lids half closed, unabashed and barefaced. The one who can rub herself against him like a cat. Can spread her legs and pull his mouth down there. Completely unashamed. She can let him see her like that.
But she can't even tell him how she feels.
Someone must have really done a number on her. Someone's done a good one on him too - that's for sure. But somehow she is the one most broken. Most incomplete. As if construction has gone wrong, someone stopped following the blueprint and just threw some leftover pieces together.
An unloved project, ripped from the drawing board. A failed human. Defective.
He withdraws, feeling a trickle against her thighs as he does. The sense of loss, his failure – the hopelessness of her and him. Hates himself. But can't hate her. He wipes at her with the edge of the blanket, cleans up the stickiness between her thighs. He doesn't know why but it seems the right thing to do. And she just lies there, lets him dab away the vestiges of their weaknesses. Their lack of restraint. Her face blank and eyes dark and bewildered making him ache for her, though she is right there. Near enough to touch, but never close enough.
He settles himself there next to her, pulls the blanket over them and draws his arm around the unbearable dip of her waist. Wide awake instead of spent, edgy instead of sated. Growing hard again against her buttocks. Unfulfilled.
He takes her breast in his hand, fingers sprawled wide, the way that it just fit his palm. Belongs there. The degradation of loving her, in spite of it all.
She shifts almost unconsciously, opens up, hooking on thigh over his hip. Wide open. A sleepy sigh escaping. His fingers circling her belly button wanting to slide down, to start all over again. Try to connect.
But he doesn't.
Instead he watches her face, the heavy eyelids falling shut. The shadow of her eyelashes on her cheekbones that he's not convinced he can do without. Her respiration slow and steady. Like this is where she should be. Needs to be.
Trying to digest her measly declaration of love. The; you, you, you. Inadequate and flawed as it is – as she is. The 'you'. The only word out of those three that she dares hold in her mouth. And he finds that he can forgive her that. Can forgive her for not being enough, not being whole. But two wrongs don't make a right. Just like them. He wants her and he doesn't.
And she is never close enough.
As she knew he would - from the moment he'd lied down next to her.
Some time during the night, after the air has grown cooler, the noise of the forest has stilled, she feels him slipping away, tucking the blanket around her. A set of lips pressing a kiss on her temple, the clumsy large hand on her hair. A mumble of something, maybe 'sorry'. His goodbye.
And she knows. This is how it has to be.
She isn't enough.