Remedy
Characters: Sawyer and Ana
Status: Complete
Description: Sawyer hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks.
I Disclaim. . . .
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If I come on like a dream
Would you let me show you what I mean
-Black Crowes
When Sawyer can't sleep he counts Ana Lucias -- little brown snarly girls with balled-up fists and black tank toppy things floating above his head. On a good night they pucker up those supple lips to blow him kisses. On a bad night they threaten to cause him pain.
One Ana Lucia. Three Ana Lucia. Five. . .
How much longer does he have to count before he gets laid again.
Seven Ana Lucia. Nine . . .
He's got more plenty guns for her to steal if she would only try.
He gets to about 20 before he gets drowsy -- gets 'til about 50 before the goings-on inside his pants calm down, and unassisted he might add. He doesn't need to do that. . . yet. But if the Muchacha doesn't put out again soon, no telling what he would do with a Playboy and a private corner.
This nutty island is truly hell. He landed here in the middle of nowhere and lost his Mojo.
Eleven Ana Lulu. Thirteen. . .
Ah hell, she ain't playing hard to get; she's playing hard to get again. And since when does he have to chase after some broad anyway? Catching women and keeping them coming is his religion. Turning the tables even ever so slightly, a mortal sin. All that is sacred has gone to hell in a hand basket. Bizarro world. Hell.
Sawyer growls and beats his fist, restless in a threadbare sleeping bag that he snagged from Hurley in a trade for five coconuts and a pack of double A batteries. There's room enough in there for two -- plenty o' Sawyer-lovin' to keep her warm and comfy at night. What more can she ask for?
He's at 29 Lucy's, and he stops obsessing over that creamy midrriff and round little ass. Somewhere around 50 and he's asleep.
At the crack of dawn the little Ana Lucia's are running jackhammers inside his skull, drilling deep into the fretted planes of his brain -- smirking and snarling and handing out death threats. His head hurts that badly, and he has only one Muchacha to blame.
Sawyer reaches over and rummages through his stash for a couple of Advil. He overturns boxes, completely empties his knapsacks, dumping their contents all over the sandy surface of his shanty living area. There is no sign of a decent painkiller anywhere. Sonofabitch.
Soon, while cursing loudly, he's sending books, magazines and items of clothing flying out of his tent one by one. Still nothing.
He's rattling off 20 different ways that he will kick Doco's ass from sunup to sundown for ransacking his stash again. He's bemoaning that he'll never get no satisfaction when he hears the voice that crawls under his skin and sticks to every haggard nerve.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Nevermind what the hell am I doing," he answers through a clenched jaw. He needs not look at her; he can identify that voice in any state of mind, blindfolded in a rainstorm even. Instead he continues lifting shirts and jeans, long past ready for the laundry, sticking his hands into tube socks and turning them inside out, tossing each item aside, coming up empty of a remedy every time.
"God dangit."
"Well I always knew you were insane, and it was only a matter of time before you cracked. Guess today's the day."
Ana Lucia is hovering above him just like in his dream. Although she never yapped this much even in his worst nightmare. Ignoring her for the moment, he pauses to get his bearings on the situation at hand. As much as he would love to verbally spar with Speedy, he decides to save trading insults and take care of his headache first. He pulls from his memory, trying to figure out how many island women, in that time of the month, of whom he had rationed-out the Advil. Countless numbers of em. Nothing worse than a harpy on the rag with cramps. But no way could he had given all the painkillers away. No way Jose. Owe his achin' head.
"Unless you gonna comfort me in my time of suffering Lucy, I suggest you scram. . . .Eureka!"
Sawyer recovers the bottle of Advil from deep inside a hidden pocket of a blazer, and palms it like he just uncovered the holy grail. He pops the last two in his mouth, swallowing hard without the benefit of water to wash it down. He peeks out of the corner of his eye and Rambina is still planted there, beautiful face frowned up something fierce. She's switched the skin tight jeans for a pair of military-style camouflage pants. How fitting. Fitting swell. The same black tank still shows off her honey skin. He craves to touch it, peel that military garb off and wallow in it.
"Guess you are so busy hiding things from other people that you can't find them yourself. Serves you right."
"Is there something I can do you for Muchacha?" He feels his temples throb, and the pills catching the back of his throat. He bears down, gulping as hard as he can to force them down into his empty stomach. He opens one eye and spies her looking quite tempting, and dare he say, sweet, in the morning light. Her lips all pursed together are plump and ripe. Her raven hair is loose and flowing in the balmy breeze, and he wants nothing more than to run his fingers in it and feel the silkiness of it against his bare chest.
"Now, don't tell me you missed me," he says smoothly, not caring so much about the answer. He just likes seeing her get all hot and bothered by the question.
"Not a chance of that Cowboy. But there is something you can do for me."
"Well I can do many things fer ya. We both know that now don't we," he growls rubbing his bare chest, making sure she notices what she's missing.
She rolls her eyes at the implication. "Why don't you dig into that pile of stolen mess you created and pull me out your stash of bullets. I am all out of ammo." She yanks the revolver from the back of her jeans and holds it out in front of her.
"Well who you been usin' for target practice Rambina? Do I need to call the Po-lice?"
"Don't worry about it Cowboy."
"Well I got a better idea then Sherrif. How about no. Ain't my fault you wasted it all. But I'll tell you what, since you worked your little tail off literally to get that piece you're holding, I'll let ya put in a little overtime for the bullets," he declares with the grin of a used car saleman.
"Forget it," she says pointedly while turning to leave the scene.
"Hell I'll even turn my back and make it look like you stole em."
"Just gimme the ammo."
"Aww we gonna go through this again Luce? You and your gimmies ain't gonna get you nowhere. The sun don't shine on the same dog's behind everyday."
She sighs and rubs the back of her neck with a look that is a cross between resigned and utterly confused. Sawyer believes he is wearing her down with jibberish that he knows only really makes sense to himself.
Laughing under his breath, he bends down to pick up a few shirts that he had tossed about. Bending and lifting, bending and lifting. Lifting a final time to meet the barrel of the gun. Muscles tense, he hears the safety release and hunches up like a cat under attack.
"What da..."
"Give me the damn ammo. I'm not going to ask again." Her voice is gravelly and as dead serious as Dirty Harry.
He chuckles and slowly raises up to fully stand and feels like saying 'go ahead, make my day.' He has at least five inches on the lil Militant Mama. She tilts her head back and lifts her aim to meet his face. He puts his dukes up in mock surrender.
"Now don't tell me. You're gonna count to five them shoot me, huh Harriet?"
"I got one round left," she says boastfully, squinting one eye and straightening her aim.
"Well sorry Mama, but you fresh out of luck. You don't think I'd keep the ammo here do ya? And it ain't in my back pocket either, so go ahead and uh . . . bust a cap." He laughs amused with himself and his range of vernacular slang.
Sawyer knows he's pushing his luck, admitting that she is off her rocker enough to actually pull that trigger. Breaking up their showdown before things escalate, in a swift move he snatches hold of her wrist and swings her arm around in locked position behind her lower back. She struggles a bit then rams her heal into his shin, and few times. She then leans forward, cocs her knee and launches the bottom of her foot squarely into his hip bone, just narrowly missing his prized jewels.
His shins are already bruised from the first time. She is kicking old wounds. And no matter how hard she bucks and kicks, he's not letting go, but he doesn't want to risk having her slip up and fire that pistol either. "Simmer down woman, now who's the crazy one?"
"You are , you creep." She jerks again and he grips her tighter. He's wearing only a pair of oversized jeans and nothing else, which slipped down way past his hips during the struggle. He wraps his arms around her tightly, and she wiggles a bit in his embrace like a caterpillar trying to break from a cocoon. She slithers her ass against his groin and it's noticeably driving him insane.
He splays his palm against the exposed part of her midriff, jerking her closer. Grazing his lower lip against her ear drum, he breathes hard into her, wraps his body around her securely and lowers his voice to a dull roar.
"You like to use violence as a means of foreplay? If that's your style El Niña, fine. I am here to tell ya that you don't have to work that hard. Now drop the damn gun."
Pressing his exposed and awakened groin against her back, he swears he hears her gasp and moan under her breath. Then the pistol lands with a thud in a heap of sand at their feet.
"That's it," he talks her down like a seasoned negotiator.
"You bastard."
"You love it."
Never underestimate the Muchacha.
He barely forms that thought as he jerks then melts at the feel of her hands slipping down into his pants. He oughta have known where this was heading. He oughta. Hell, she couldn't hold out anymore than he could.
She spins herself around in his embrace. With her tongue peeking out of her lips she fiddles with his pants like she's breaking open a safe. She manages to unfasten the top button his his jeans, slips the zipper down, and runs her palms around to cup the cheeks of his ass, surprising him with a tight squeeze.
"Told you their ain't no ammo back there, but you keep the fingers walkin."
"Shut up," she snaps, as his jeans miraculously slip past his knees.
"Why yes ma'am."
With lips locked they stumble back clumsily into his tent, tripping on shoes and clothes on the way, falling to the ground into a heap of intertwined bodies.
He's a gentleman first and foremost, never one to force himself on a woman so he's happy to oblige The Muchacha having her way with him. And like a hurricane, El Nina comes on fierce and unpredictable. He's never had one quite like her before, and can likely have a heart attack trying to keep up with her. She shows no mercy. Her loving is industrial strength. And he's whipped by the movement of her hips gliding underneath him like a rolling wave, the strategic placement of her lips on his chest and pulsating parts, the desperation of her hands clawing at his back, the vice grips of her thighs around his waist.
She feels ample and fleshy like a ripe mango, succulent and firm as a Georgia peach. He is driven outside of reality by the melodic timber of her moans. He's inside her and he feels her melt into him. She is compact enough for him to swallow her up, but still she is always in full control.
Right to the very edge.
Spent and sated Sawyer rolls on his back and looks through blurred vision at his canvas roof, and listens to the palms rustling in the breeze matching his own haggard shallow breathing. Before he can bring himself back to full coherency, Ana is already up on her knees pulling that tank top over her head, shaking her wild wavy hair around before pulling it up into a neat bun.
Again there is no cuddling, none of the typical afterglow monotony with the woman looking up all doey-eyed at him wondering if he'll stay or hightail it. Ana Lulu's an all utility gal with minimal fluff. The way it should be.
She pulls up her pants, and crawls on her knees, making her way towards the entrance of the tent, gingerly as if she is trying to leave the scene of a crime unnoticed.
Where is she going? He got what he wanted so why does he feel so cheated? Curse that, he thinks, lying back down. He got what he's been wantin', no more headache, no more nightmares. He's happy as a clam.
She stops and turns to look at him. Smirking wryly her eyes trail his naked body up and down. The early morning sunlight peers into his abode, stroking her face and making her dark eyes glisten like opals.
"You're going to continue keeping your mouth shut about this, right?"
"I ain't agreeing to nuthin sweet cheeks. Just to say 'I told you so' every time you come around here hankering for a bit of Sawyer. Hell the way you were going at it, probably woke up the whole damn neighborhood anyway."
"Hmph." She doesn't deny it, doesn't blush at the notion. She just jerks her head and heads out.
"Oh Luuuceee." He calls her back in the best Ricky Ricardo voice that his weary body will allow. "Don't you want dem bullets? Cuz that's what you were really after, right?"
"When I need the ammo, I'll get the ammo Cowboy. Don't you worry about it." She winks, and sucks her teeth. Sawyer imagines her blowing a kiss. She gives his imagination uncanny vividness.
"Yea you will," he says through a deep sated sigh as she disappears. He drifts and hovers, feeling completely out of his body, wondering if he didn't just dream the whole thing. It didn't matter one way or the other. Real or not, he's satisfied.
He rolls over on his side, and reaches under a sheet of tarp, pulling out a cardboard box full of metal. He shakes the box of bullets like a maracca, places them under his jungle-rot pillow and lays his head down peacefully with his hands softly folded under his chin.
Real or not, she'll be back. And he'll be ready.
-end-