Note: This story is a result of the prompt 'not supposed to'.
"Shit. What the hell happened to you?"
It is the dead of night. Sawyer is still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he cracks open his front door to let her in, her blonde hair lighting up his apartment like a blazing sun. Despite the hinderance of exhaustion clouding his vision, he notices Claire's condition right away.
She doesn't answer him; just looks up at him as if she's forgotten how to use words, forgotten how to speak at all. Her lips are trembling, but it doesn't surprise him. They are cracked down the middle, dried blood dividing the lower and top half. Her right eye is circled, already blue and swollen. He hasn't even turned the lights on yet.
Ushering her over to a chair, she trembles when he touches her, looking like a scared, skittish cat. Sawyer busies himself with getting ice, not only because she sure as hell needs it, but because he'd rather not think about how she's never reacted to his touch that way before.
He circles round her, flicking on a light as he passes, and gently presses the bag of ice to her swollen eye. She winces, tears coming to her eyes and goes to bite her lip, but stops mid way. He leans closer and checks for more bruises. He can't find any, but Sawyer knows this doesn't mean there aren't any others.
"I woke him up," she whispers, looking up at him. "He knew I was coming here."
"That ain't no damn excuse, Claire."
"I know, but… what about him?"
"He doesn't exist anymore. Not here, not now. Going back to that bastard won't change it. You can't bring him back. We can't bring any of them back." When she cries harder at his words, eyes closing in pain, he mutters, "I'll kill him for this."
"No. You won't." Her tears stop and she clutches at his arm as if to steady him. The hot burn of anger does not disappear, but he feels something else rise in his chest. It distracts him.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't, Claire."
"Me."
She leans forward, the bag of ice pressed between the two of them and tucks her tiny hands to his neck, inching her way closer slowly slowly; gives him time to escape. He doesn't stop her and so she kisses him. He can taste the blood on her lips and when she sucks in a breath, he can't tell if it's because of her split lip or because of what the two of them are doing. When she gasps again, this time between the sheets of his bed, he knows for sure it's not because he's hurting her.
They aren't supposed to remember the island, their life that was never a life; but they do. Aaron, Juliet, Charlie… they're all dead and the other passengers of flight 815 live in blissful ignorance. Sawyer and Claire, they don't get ignorance. They live with the memories of what never was.
.
"I'm not supposed to be here."
"So get out!"
"I'm not supposed to do this."
"Put down the gun and get the hell out of here! You're both crazy. She's crazy."
"I'm not supposed to do this, but I will. If you ever touch her again, speak to her again, think of her again; I will kill you. And I won't care one way or the other whether I'm supposed to or not, Thomas, no matter what she says."
end.