Title: Fading away.
Rating: PG-13.
Character: Sawyer, implied Kate/Sawyer.
Summary: He's determined to not allow his own memories to drown him. Although they reach him sometimes, usually when he is in front of a glass of bourbon, flirting with some sassy chick (the only kind of chick he flirts with right now – he's convinced himself he doesn't go for brunette fugitives anymore).
N/A: my very first fic in English! Please correct me anything I got wrong, even if it's the silliest thing ever. PLEASE. I'll be eternally thankful if you do.
AU, or something like that.
Disclaimer: Lost and its characters do not belong to me.
Reviewing doesn't cause infertility.
It's been almost five years since they left the island, the freaken, craphole island, and Sawyer has tried desperately to not to think, just survive, passing through his life as a mere spectator, and not a main protagonist like he used to.
He's become an expert at the art of lying, of dodging reality. Scratching it some times, brushing it others. Never embracing it all.
He's determined to not allow his own memories to drown him. Although they reach him sometimes, usually when he is in front of a glass of bourbon, flirting with some sassy chick (the only kind of chick he flirts with right now – he's convinced himself he doesn't go for brunette fugitives anymore). But no, hell no, he'll just down the bourbon in one go, spread a Casanova smile and stretch his arm until he feels the smooth skin under his hand, and then caress it almost violently.
The chick is at his feet a second after, which means he hasn't lost his inborn seductive abilities yet.
On this particular occasion, that's not going to happen. He's entering in some dirty old town in Iowa and suddenly, while seated in the old rented Cadillac, he sees this huge road sign announcing that Davenport is hardly thirty three kilometres away from him. A moment after, hundreds of flashes come towards to him, flashes he'd rather not be having. Flashes about hertelling him something he's already forgotten about her hometown.
So, this time, he doesn't go into the local pub to have a drink or two and get around the run-of-the-mill tramp. He just drives calmly down the road, like in slow motion, until he finds the usual road motel with the proverbial neon lights. He breaths in deeply as he steps out of the car, keys jingling in his pocket, and closes the door with force before making his way to the motel hall, if can be named hall.
The receptionist is a nervous young man wearing industrial quantities of hair gel. He seems quite surprised of having a client, making Sawyer wonder if he'll make him a discount or something. He doesn't, in fact. But he does give him the keys to the room 18, and, fuck, the number reminds him of flight 815 and all its damned passengers.
Once again, he forces himself to not think, not waste one only second remembering. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, and he has to say it out loud because he's starting to forget the routine of breathing.
He cannot help it. He's human after all. He does remember. He does lose himself in his very own memories. And what it's worse, he does take out of his old wallet the only photograph of her that he keeps up.
And it's like she's there, right in front of him, dark curls and deep eyes piercing his soul like sharp needles.
Sawyer blinks and she's disappeared.
He takes a seat at the wooden rickety table and extracts his Zippo, staring intensely at it. Although he's made up his mind, he still has time to think it over. But he doesn't.
The sudden crack of the lighter shatters the silence, the night, even the emptiness that is slowly filling his soul. He approaches the little dancing fire to the photograph and watches it consuming the paper, until there's nothing left to consume.
And everything burns as she fades away…