Lost Secret Santa fic exchange for President Laura Roslin, who requested a Sawyer/Juliet Dharma-era Christmas. This probably isn't what you had in mind... Title from the song 'Through and Through' by Joel Plaskett.
*
Sawyer hates Christmas.
He really does. Everything about the time of year just irks him. The music (Annoying as hell – how many times has he punched someone for singing something as innocent as 'falalalalala'?), the decorations (Why the fuck do you need a tree in your house? Yeah, whatever, symbolism...) not to mention the kids, who are ten times as screechy as normal, begging for shit they probably don't deserve. Most of all, though, he hates the stress that bends people almost to their breaking point. Picking up girls on Christmas was a bitch back when he, you know, conned.
Unfortunately, Horace-the-fearless-leader decides that, despite the climate, Dharma is going to celebrate Christmas. He can't afford to ship in real trees, so he gets plastic ones, and ornaments, and lights, and in a week Sawyer just wants to scream 'cause the place looks like the goddamn North Pole (If the North Pole happened to be in the Bahamas or whatever). It's driving him crazy.
Jin is a nice guy, so of course he can't refuse when Amy shows up, beaming, at the door to the house they share, along with Miles, holding a battered box of lights and a fake plastic tree. Sawyer tries to get Miles on his side, tries to tell Jin that there is no way in hell he's letting him turn their house into a big, gay, twinkling shithole, and gets the shock of his life. Miles likes Christmas. He likes the pretty lights, and the eggnog and the stupid music. Behind the sarcastic, cutting remarks, and his cynical views, the guy's a fucking romantic.
Jesus Christ.
Finally, the dreaded day arrives. December 24th. Sawyer tries to tell himself to calm down, it's just a stupid holiday (with stupid music and stupid fake cheerfulness and oh did he mention that he hates eggnog?) and that he better suck it up, because as Chief of Security, he's got a reputation to uphold. So he lasts about half an hour at the themed dance that Horace decides is a must, before the DJ or whatever decides to play Jingle Bell Rock for the fifth time in a row. There isn't even any damn booze, and Miles is hitting on some piece of ass in a really ugly dress, Jin is just so confused, and Horace and Amy are (attempting) to waltz or something. He can't take it anymore, so he leaves.
He goes back to his house and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Juliet sprawled on his couch with a bottle of whiskey and a box of Kleenex.
She turns to look at him, and with a shock he sees that her blue eyes are puffy and red. "Oh," she says faintly, "it's you." A smile curves her lips, but it looks too tight and wrong on her face. It looks like hurts her.
He's been avoiding her ever since the Dharma population was bitten by the Christmas bug, because who wouldn't get into the season more then Little Miss Martha Stewart Wannabe? (Admittedly, Juliet's a lot hotter than Martha Stewart – but who's looking?) And honestly, Sawyer is surprised she's not off baking cookies or knitting for the homeless or whatever it is she does in her spare time. (He sometimes wonders how someone could be so bad ass and so lame at the same time. Does not compute.)
Sighing, he tosses his keys on the kitchen table, and sits down on the love seat opposite from her. "Mary Kate, there ain't no fun in getting drunk alone." He reaches over to the cupboard on his left, and fishes out his secret stash of vodka that he hides from Miles. Pouring himself a shot, he turns to stare at the distressed blond. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"
She sniffs at little and doesn't look at him. "I picked the lock."
He rolls his eyes so far up he thinks they'll go through the ceiling. "And why the fuck did you do that?"
"I didn't want to be bothered. My roommate's sick, and listening to her coughing constantly is really obnoxious."
"Oh," he says, the sarcasm in his voice sharper, "I'll just wait outside for you to finish, then, if you don't want to be bothered. Or would you like a foot massage while you wait, Princess?"
She doesn't look up when she tells him, "Fuck you, Sawyer."
He doesn't know what surprises him more; the use of his fake name (she never calls him Sawyer) or the fact that she swore.
Both are ridiculously out of character for her, so he doesn't react like he normally would. Instead he stares into her face (he used to think her face was one of the creepiest things ever, with her dead eyes and blank features, but now he just sees that she's almost constantly, perpetually, sad.) and says. "Hey. Hey. Juliet."
She ignores him, so he tries again. "Capulet."
She warbles out a tiny laugh, and he knows he's in. "So... do you just hate Christmas as much as me, or what?"
She smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "Or what," she teases lightly. Her wise blue eyes regard him coolly, as he fights to keep himself from snapping.
He waits. Finally, she asks, "Why do you hate Christmas?"
"I asked first." He scowls.
"No, you asked me if I hated Christmas, not why." She sits up, finally, and he gets a good look at her face. Jesus, she looks terrible. Her hair's a mess, her nose is red, and the shadows under her eyes seem to take up her whole face. He sees this wasn't some little tear fest after watching the Notebook; she's seriously fucked up.
"Dammit, Juliet." The words burst out of him with a mind of their own. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
She is probably the only person who he can yell at without shrinking away in fear, he thinks as she stares at him impassively. Finally, after what feels like a million years, she tells him slowly, "Four."
"What?"
"Four," she repeats. She holds out her palm with her thumb curled up. "I've been here for four Christmases." Her eyes are curiously blank. "It's been four Christmases since I first came here. Four since I've seen my sister. I've never seen my nephew. It's not fair." She breathes in loudly. "Christmas was my favorite time, when I was with Rachel. It was our time." She heaves a great, watery sob, so suddenly it kind of scares him. "I want to go home," she cries. "I hate it here!"
Rising slowly, he says, "Juliet-"
And now she's crying, she's crying (Juliet doesn't cry) and he doesn't know what to do. The last person he held while she cried was Kate, and he doesn't want to bring those memories up again. So, he's about to sit back down, 'cause he's no good at dealing with weepy women, except this is Juliet, his (he has to admit it) best friend, his partner, whatever the fuck you wanna call her. This isn't just some woman.
He crosses the distance between them in two long strides. His fingers tangle in her hair, as he drags her closer to him, and she buries her face in his neck as she continues to make that noise, the sound of a grown woman breaking off into girl sized pieces. Her nails dig into the soft flannel of his shirt as her shuddering gasps and tears, muffled but loud, linger. He doesn't know exactly what to do (he may be a conman, but this is out of his league; besides, he can't sweet talk her) so he just lets her sob like every sound is being ripped from her chest.
After awhile (and he means awhile) she just stops. Kind of anti-climatically.
He says the only thing he can think of. "Some Christmas, huh?" The look she shoots him is half exasperated, half just-plain-lifeless.
Wiping her eyes, she asks, "So why do you hate Christmas?"
He shakes his head. "I just do. It's stupid and tacky and annoying and cliché. Sorry," catching sight of her irritated face, "no special reason."
She just keeps looking at him.
He caves.
"Because my mama used to take me to church. We'd sing Christmas carols, and we'd drink cocoa, and it'd be great. My dad wouldn't come along cause he's not religious and it'd be just me and her. And then my dad shot her, okay?!" He yells suddenly. "She's dead, and every time I see a fucking Christmas tree all I can think of is that she's dead!"
She doesn't move. She doesn't blink. She is constant.
It's him who speaks first. "Sorry."
"It's okay," she whispers. Her arms slide over his shoulders, and she hugs him close. "It's okay. We're okay."
He sighs into her, a sigh that shakes through his whole body. He buries his face in her hair and murmurs, "Thanks."
He can feel her slight smile and her eyelashes flutter against his cheek. "Yeah."
As they fall asleep on the old couch, arms still holding on (as if for dear life) Sawyer thinks that maybe Christmas isn't so bad if you've got somebody to share it with. Maybe there are such things as Christmas miracles after all.
*
Merry, uh... Christmas?