Title: Requiem: Unsung
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the castaways are being rescued, Kate fakes her own death to escape prison. All the castaways believe her to be dead, except for one. this is the aftermath. Spoilers up to 3x11.
Warnings: Some language, sexual situations, possibly a bit of violence.
Status of Fic: WIP.
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Lost". They were created by JJ Abrams and Damon Lindelof and they belong to them, Touchstone, and ABC.
A/N - This begins three years after Kate fakes her death. Flashbacks/memories are in italics, so you'll know what they are when you see them. Without futher ado...
Sawyer was a hot mess. He reeked of whiskey and cigarettes and a masculine, predatory scent that mingled strangely but not altogether unpleasantly with the other scents. He sat in a bar somewhere in Philadelphia, drowning his anger and self-pity in the blur of alcohol.
There was something different about the air tonight, something that put Sawyer on edge. He needed some release. A bar fight. A good lay. Something. He scanned the room, looking for nothing in particular. A few college guys complaining about their high-maintenance girlfriends. Businessmen drinking the edge off their workdays. A young woman staring straight at him.
His hazy eyes came to rest on her, traveling slowly over her body, the way a leopard might look at a gazelle just before its attack. The woman, whoever she was, did not flinch, but simply arched one dark eyebrow in response.
Sawyer took this as his cue, and after collecting two shots of whiskey, made his way over to the woman.
"Shortcake, you look like a woman who can hold her liquor," he placed a shot in front of her and smiled suggestively.
"You could tell that just by looking at me, huh?" The woman spoke without any shyness, without the usual feminine lightless Sawyer inspired in the opposite sex.
She reminded him of someone, though he couldn't remember who. Hell, Sawyer had been with more women than some men met in a lifetime, of course he couldn't place the similarities. Still, something about her demeanor made him uneasy. But Sawyer was not to be defeated.
"I can tell a lot of things by just looking at you, cupcake," Sawyer drawled.
"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from addressing me by the names of your favorite desserts."
Sawyer whistled. And then smiled.
"My name is Maria, and in case you were actually wondering, I can hold my liquor." And she downed the shot, smiling confidently.
Sawyer laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in a long time, "The name's Sawyer."
"I'll bet it is," Maria replied, though her tone was no longer confrontational, but flirtatious.
Maria was attractive; she had a pretty mouth, a toned body, and long dark hair. Sawyer thought she probably would be a lot more attractive if she were wearing less makeup, though. He never did care much for the stuff. But she was pretty enough. He was looking for a lay, not a wife. Still, there was something about her that intrigued him.
"So what brings you to Philadelphia, Sawyer?" Maria asked.
"How do you know I'm not a native?" He challenged, eyeing her hungrily.
She laughed. "You are not a native, the accent's a dead giveaway. But nice try. So what is it… a life of crime? Are you seeking vengeance? Following the woman of your dreams?"
Sawyer's mood changed at her words, almost imperceptibly. Maria didn't notice.
He met her gaze. He was not here to make friends. No more games.
"You want to get out of here?" He asked plainly.
"And go where?"
Sawyer's slow smile told Maria to where. She nodded quietly. "Alight."
They made their way down the dark streets in silence and occasionally their hands would bump against each other, reminding them that they were not going home alone tonight.
The motel certainly was no place to take a date. It was, however, the perfect place to take a stranger you just met in a bar for some quick, anonymous sex.
Sawyer opened the door and pulled Maria in behind him. The room was nondescript, bare, and unwelcoming. Neither seemed to notice.
Sawyer wasted no time. His lips were on her as soon as the door swung shut, moving from that pretty mouth to her neck and collarbone. His hands slid under her shirt, pulling it up over her head. She responded eagerly, without trepidation, pulling his shirt off, working the buttons of his jeans.
Sawyer pushed Maria down onto the bed, covering his body with hers, feeling the heat increase between their aroused bodies. And then he heard it.
Her voice, small and shy, completely unlike she had sounded at any point that night.
"I just want you to know, I don't do these types of things. Sleep with total strangers. I-I just wanted you to know."
Sawyer pulled back, really looking at her for the first time that night. With the help of the peach glow of the streetlight outside the window, he watched a warm blush creep over her cheeks. And then something else. Something he hadn't noticed before.
Freckles. Little brown freckles speckled merrily across her nose and cheeks.
Something inside Sawyer broke.
He pushed himself off of her in one movement like a man possessed.
"Out!" He shouted, enraged. "Get out!"
"W-What?" Maria asked, frightened.
"Get your things and get out now! Before I make you get out!"
Maria quickly gathered her clothes silently, beginning to cry. She looked at Sawyer, confused and hurt. He looked away. She left the motel, humiliated.
Sawyer sat down, shaken, and ran a hand through his hair.
"Freckles, if you fall out of that tree, I ain't running back to the beach for help."
"I never fall," Kate said, and promptly landed on her feet in front of Sawyer, "Here, have some breakfast," she offered, handing him some tropical fruit he didn't know the name of.
Sawyer bit into the fruit, making an exaggerated face of disgust. He sat next to where Kate had settled at the base of the tree.
"What I wouldn't give for a hamburger…" He mused.
"You eat hamburgers for breakfast?" She retorted, smiling.
"Well, now I don't." Sawyer mumbled. Kate laughed. "I'll tell you what, when we get off this damn island of mysteries, we'll have hamburgers a week straight for breakfast."
Kate easily could have pointed out how unhealthy that was. Or that she'd probably be in jail when (or if) they got off the island. But this was one of those rare moments when Sawyer was genuinely kind and not the smartass bastard he usually was. She couldn't bring herself to ruin it.
"Promise?"
"It'll be the best damn breakfast you've ever had, Freckles." He smiled and his dimples made him look so much younger than he felt.
"Can I ask you something, Sawyer?"
"Knock yourself out, kitten."
"Why do you call me 'Freckles'?" Kate asked.
Sawyer grinned, feigning confusion, "Because you have freckles."
Kate rolled her eyes, "Lots of girls have freckles. I'm pretty sure Claire has some. You don't call her 'Freckles.'"
"Maybe I just like yours better." Sawyer had meant for it to sound like a joke, but it didn't. It sounded like maybe he did like her freckles better. Like maybe he thought they were the cutest, most spectacular freckles ever. Which, incidentally, he did.
"Oh," Kate said, meeting his eyes with a quiet smile on her lips, "Okay then."
Kate finished her breakfast looking much like a child might when opening presents on Christmas morning.
Sawyer sighed, falling back into the bed exhausted. Three years after everything fell apart and Kate Austen still controlled every aspect of his life.