Author's Note: Title from Thick as Thieves by Natalie Merchant.
The lines of his profile are dark set against the pale splendor of the sunset, intent. His fingers grasp the rail lightly, his impatience, his yearning, palpable in the very set of his chin.
She's been there.
He turns as she comes up behind him, sensing her presence although she's certain she hasn't made a sound, hands falling casually to his sides, all polite attention.
"Kate." Her name is sharp on his tongue, the "t" precise, clipped, the "e" rounded. No one else has ever said it quite like that before, she thinks--full, like it means something.
His eyebrows raise ever so slightly and she sees that he's surprised to see her. He'd expected her to stay with the others.
"Aaron's with Sun, and Jack's talking to Lapidus about the Sox, and . . ." Her nervous laugh swallows the rest: and I always come here to think, but since you're in my usual spot talking'd be okay, too. She waits for some brilliant excuse for her interruption to come to her.
But he just nods companionably, needing no explanation, or, more likely, finding enough in her expression, and gestures to the vista before them, sea and sky sparkling as they merge, the darkness of the late-coming night and the gold of the quickly dying sun quietly glancing off the water. "The view is beautiful, isn't it?" His voice lilts musically, barely distinguishable over the slapping of the waves against the side of the boat, and he closes his eyes for an instant, long lashes grazing the top of his cheek, as though it is too much for him.
(She feels her breath catch in her chest, the setting and the person and the moment all ethereal for a half-second in time, and when it passes it's all too easy to blame on seasickness.)
She lets her face crack for a moment, smiling in agreement, wordless at the beauty, and leans forward against the railing, letting herself relax a little as he joins her.
She can feel him so vividly, the weight of him, the power, his scent, warm and just slightly foreign, different from Jack's aftershave and Sawyer's cologne and yet not, crashing over her quietly with the breeze.
She watches him, curious, as his features unconsciously set, yearning soft on his mouth, patience hard in the furrow between his brows, eyes gone somewhere beyond or behind the stars they're so resolutely fixed upon.
"Who is she?" The words slip out before she can take them back, and they come out intrusive, nosy, so unconscionably loud in the peace of the night, though she hadn't meant it like that. She shifts away and looks down, embarrassed. "I'm sorry--"
"Nadia." The name is sensual, drawn out, like he never wants it to leave his lips, and he closes his eyes again, overcome this time not by what he sees but by what he doesn't. "I was--we were--" his voice thickens and he exhales, looking right at her, clearing some invisible barrier. "It's been nearly a decade. I imagine you'll know what I feel when you haven't seen Sawyer in seven years." It's gently said, but the light in his eyes is anything but.
She tries not to let that affect her, but the salt air burns and she feels water gathering behind her lids even as her face closes off. "Sawyer isn't dead." It comes out too quickly, defensive. Of course he catches that. (Is there anything he doesn't?)
"Neither is Nadia." His gaze darts lightly away from her and rests on the now nearly-risen half-moon. "It wouldn't be prudent to give up hope." It sounds almost mocking, like a death sentence, some dreary predetermined conclusion he's tied himself to, the weight pulling him down. (She feels the boat sinking and her with it.)
"Hope's a dangerous thing to lose." She mutters this, all reflex--there's something so familiar about the phrase, though she can't quite place it--but of course he catches it, too, and she keeps her eyes down, wondering why this is suddenly something she believes.
"Dangerous," he murmurs, yes, and his voice is a flame slow-burning in her ears.