Chapter 10
He hovered at the periphery of consciousness, aware that his body was lax with sleep. Yet he was able to appreciate the warmth of the curled Rousseau pressed against his length, and flirted with the idea of staying here, in this state, not responsible to think, plan, act; just to …enjoy the weight of her hand on his stomach. The allure of it was great because the cold, unyielding floor covered with only a tattered sleeping bag was a luxurious bed that yielded the rest that had been denied him since Shannon's death.
The sound of glass meeting concrete swept him into wakefulness. He met Danielle's wide eyes, then jumped to his feet, catching her arm as the woman teetered. They hastily tugged on the clothes at hand, eyes trained on the opening that lead to the vertical hatch, ears straining to hear clues as to the number descending on them. As he zipped his trousers, Sayid cast about for a weapon, any weapon, his heart pounding in his chest. An errant thought on his lack of shoes dashed across his consciousness, foolishly increasing his feeling of vulnerability.
He spun to face the other opening, convinced that he would see Ben flanked by burly escorts. That the doorway remained empty offered small comfort – very fleeting - beyond the attack would not be a pincher. He looked back to the entrance as Danielle dashed to the counter and began to rummage through the contents, pushing things to crash to the floor.
There would be time, he realized, before the most nimble of climbers could reach the ground. The height of the tunnel would make vulnerable – temporarily – those making the descent. He smiled grimly as the thought of the damage some well thrown objects could provide.
The new scab on his shin pulled as he ran, brushing Danielle as he palmed the first two sizeable items on the counter. He quickly covered the short distance to the opening, and flattened himself before the door jam. He strained to hear for any clue to the number coming down, frowning in frustration when he could make out nothing. He slid carefully into position to view what he could of the rungs without being seen from above.
They were empty.
Sayid twisted so he could see to the top, concern that he be spotted forgotten. Despite the darkness, he could not make out a figure on the ladder. Unless it was night outside, the darkness itself was telling. The hatch was not open.
He frowned, looking at the glass fragments near his foot, then again at the vacant treads. He was without answers. Again.
He turned and shook his head as their eyes met.
Danielle was pressed to the wall, the propane canister in her raised hands like a cricket bat. She lowered it slowly. "Nothing." It was not a question. She pulled her lips tight, her eyes flat.
He noted a strange sense of disappointment. Despite the danger, despite the poor odds, the return of the Others would create forward motion. "No one." He tossed the crumpled box and sticky plastic bottle from his hands onto one of the chairs.
"Then why," she demanded.
He shrugged, absently rubbing his throbbing leg. "Perhaps someone tried to open the hatch but could not. Or was interrupted. By the mon - your – the security system. Perhaps the security system fell some trees, causing enough vibration to cause the glass to fall."
"You don't know," she said dryly.
He shrugged once more. "We'll know soon enough if it was the Others returning."
She carefully returned the tank to the counter. "Then we'd better be ready." She crossed to the bathroom door and disappeared into the room.
Sayid watched her, then moved to his shoes. It did not sit well with him, this waiting for outside forces to determine his fate. After leaving Iraq, he was almost overwhelmed by free will, with no grand plan marking his way, no heroic history to augment, no familial expectations bearing down. He Had been amazed to find the depth of his curiosity when unfettered by rules – internal and external – coupled with the freedom to indulge it.
With the plane crash, he was once again dependent on external factors. Rescue, once the transmitter was destroyed, was out of his hands. Food, water, shelter absorbed all energies. His choices were limited: work or go hungry; build or be exposed to nature's whims of blazing sun or punishing rains.
His only real choice had been to pursue Shannon, all else had been survival. Until now.
His eyes tracked to the door. He had chosen to accompany Danielle. He had chosen to touch her and be touched.
He was now choosing to leave the hatch. Today.
Danielle emerged fully dressed. Her clothes did not look much better for their washing. "We must leave," she said, her hands nervously smoothing her trousers.
Sayid finished tying his left shoe and stood. She stepped back, bumping into the door behind her, her gaze moving but never touching his face.
He kept his expression neutral as heat flamed his cheeks, grateful for his beard. The woman's tension added to the drowning quotient present in the room. He cursed his lack of suavity, wishing for moments that he could be Sawyer. He mentally sighed.
He nodded, then realized that she still had yet to look at him. "Yes."
Her eyes skated across his face.
"Danielle," he crossed to her, wondering if she would flee to the bathroom. He reached to gently take her forearms in his hands.
She stiffened, lifting her eyes to lock with his.
"We will escape," he said quietly. "We will go to your camp, retrieve your belongings. We will return to the beach camp."
She nodded once, stiffly. Her palms slid to grip his arms, tension evident in every finger pressing into his skin. "I will need a shelter." Her eyes bore into his.
A stray thought of how Robert believed that he could successfully lie to this woman dashed across his mind. A small smile rounded his cheeks. He nodded.
The pressure on his skin eased, then tightened almost painfully.
"I would like it near yours." The tone was almost a dare, almost a plea.
Before freeing Nadia from her Iraqi prison, Sayid had not considered himself impulsive. He preferred the image of a logical, clear thinking person with a talent for judging people. The desperate and wild act of shooting himself in the leg scarred that illusion as well as his thigh. He now tried to temper the two aspects with some success, some failure.
Instinct raised its head. "If you wish, you could share mine."
Her fingers loosened, began to caress. Her eyes brightened, a smile similar to that when he repaired her music box opened her face. "Yes. Yes, very much."
He took her hand, and indicated with his head the direction of the horizontal hatch. "Let's check that door. Perhaps what caused our glass to fall caused their lock to fall as well."