God… these chapters just get longer and longer. I have gone way past what's logical and decent by now. Can't help it. I keep cutting and cutting and somehow new stuff sneaks in there in between the lines.
Thanks to those still reading and for all the reviews, they have picked me off the floor these last few weeks:
Katey, CarolynneRuth (thanks for basically reviewing the whole fic in two days, quite a feat in itself – I loved all your little reactions and comments) Gabism, Yema (actually the ratting Kate out for a reward is a great idea, too bad I didn't think of that one : ) – oh and no cellphone reception up at the house, therefore the stumbling to the village, but maybe I should have mentioned that again… And, no not a writer, it's just a hobby, work in design. ) Trapped in a Matchbox, Scotty (thanks for the compliment – blushing now - yeah, I'm also pretty disappointed in this season too. All of the relationships on the show seem pretty 'meh' right now.) Tiana (glad you reviewed and please don't feel shy about your English – not a native speaker either… ), tsol (happy the fic made you feel better for Kate/Sawyer… : ) .
Ok…this chapter is mostly fluff, written for the hell of it and because I'm feeling a little nostalgic for S1. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
Rated M for mature subjects and language
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it.
Another game
She can feel him watching her even before she opens her eyes.
To find him there, his face so near. She can almost forget everything that has happened. Can almost make believe it will be alright.
The way he looks at her, a little sheepish but open, baring himself to her. This is it. Take it or leave it. Tired eyes, puffy from sleep or the lack of it. The beginnings of crow's feet and laughter lines visible in the morning light. His hair falling across his forehead, as if asking to be stroked away, to be brushed to the side. The muscles of his face relaxed, open and earnest, inviting a caress. His lips, a little dry and cracked, parted a fraction.
It stuns her, the way his lips moves, the unexpected, heartbreaking 'sorry' not spoken. A superfluous 'sorry' because she can't blame him for any of this – for who she is. His eyes radiating warmth, with an artlessness, a veracity that burns through her.
This morning that she hadn't wanted to wake up to, had wanted to postpone forever. This day that she can't imagine facing, and is facing anyway. They are gone but he is here. Offering himself, for what it's worth. To her. Wants to give in. Wants to give him what he wants. Wants nothing else and it takes her breath away, sucks it right out of her lungs and she can't stand it. Can't stand the knowledge that his eyes will change. Once he gets to know what's inside of her.
This.
The way it ought to be – if she could be someone else. Her wistful hopefulness frightens her. She never gets what she wants, that's a given. She will ruin everything. Like she always does.
But his fingers between hers. A shy and hesitant kind of love for him. A tremulous, delicate hope that they could be.
Like this.
The moment shattered by Miles' mad dash through the living room.
"Hey, lets go! It's late."
Sawyer groans, closing his eyes. It's barely 7 AM but she feels it too. The sense of urgency, facing the day. She flies up from the sofa, clambers over him and he looks like he's about to protest but he says nothing, just gets up after her.
She braces herself as she steps into Claire's room. Shuts herself inside. Won't feel it.
It doesn't hurt. Doesn't hurt if you won't let it.
Picks up the bare necessities. Claire's purse, the passports and a few things of Aaron's. Doesn't allow herself to stop and think, just mechanically collects the things and presses them into her beat up canvas bag. She packs her own stuff, haphazardly just dumps it in her bag. The last item she takes is the dirty baby blanket, still on the sofa table where Sawyer had dropped it the night before. Hides it between her own clothes. Ashamed of this sentimentality she has. The habit of placing all of her sorrow in inanimate objects, so that she doesn't have to deal with them.
She swipes by him a few times and they don't look at each other. But the air is thick of it. Oppressive with a sudden discomfort, their unexpected awkwardness. The unsteady ground of something new. The feeling of having showed too much, the fear of not being enough. She's acutely aware of his physical presence as they move through the rooms, cross each other's ways. The electrical current of being in his vicinity. The overpowering urge to inhale deeply as he slides by not looking at her, both studiously avoiding any contact. Both intensely perplexed by the volatile change in their dynamics.
There is a sudden shyness between them; a timidity stemming from the daunting surge of emotions, that none of them knows how to deal with. This tendency to mistake closeness, any sort of dependency for weakness. Their bond; translucent in its fragility. Inhibited, disconcerted, paralyzed by the possibility of real intimacy.
Unable to breach the self-imposed separation that it brings.
They make their way down to the little village. He is by her side all of the time. Waiting, because she shouldn't be holding up this well. Waiting for her to fall apart but she is touchingly stoic today. Perhaps she's in denial. Hell, he doesn't know. Whatever it takes, he thinks. She has to deal with it in any which way works for her. Life stirring, waking up all around them. The air is fresh and easy to breathe after the rain, the ground still soggy, muddy. They struggle with their luggage down the hill.
They walk side by side, the back of hands accidentally brushing against each other every now and then. It jolts him, dislodges him. How she smells freshly of soap and shampoo, looking like a different woman today. Her hair, snaking itself over her shoulders in glossy wet waves from the quick shower. She is dressed in a crisp white t-shirt and faded blue jeans that hugs her hips in a way that is deeply distracting. A pair of simple sandals on her feet, her sneakers too muddy, too wet to be worn.
He's profoundly aware of her, every little gesture magnified thousand-fold by the way his pulse picks up at a transitory glance or a fleeting contact. Crap. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when he could watch her and not care. Though that was a long time ago. He can hardly remember it. Now it means to much.
The short-lived connection they'd shared this morning, lying there face to face. The faint possibility of something genuine. So scared to fumble it away, screw it up somehow. They have gotten this far, and he knows there is something there, something that is right. But he can't take it from here. It's all in her hands now and it freaks him out. So much depending on it. Everything depending on it.
They try the first one of the portals of the little compounds. Encourage by the sounds from within, people talking softly and a rooster crowing and the sound of a baby crying. The gate opens, just a few inches and the fresh face of a young boy peeps through, hair wet and combed slicked, skin gleaming in the sun. He just nods at them, expectantly, waiting for them to speak up.
"Okay, let me deal with this," Sawyer whispers quietly to the two of them. "Listen, we need help, our pal is sick, needs a hospital. Doctor…"
He nods towards Miles who dutifully clutches his stomach and writhes as if in pain. Kate just stands there. Figures.
"We need a car," he says mimicking steering with both hands.
The man nods and slams the gate shut.
"Great conning skills there Jimbo. They must think we're real nutjobs," Miles grouches and makes to turn around, to walk towards the next compound.
"Wait. He'll get someone…" Sawyer says with an arrogant confidence he hasn't got today.
And seconds later the gate is opened wide and standing there, plump and shiny, dressed in a sloppy white undershirt and a sarong tied high across the wide expanse of his belly. The cop. Their cop.
"Ah, you!" he exclaims happily as if he's been expecting them. "Sini, masuk aja, come in!"
They stumble in behind him. Have to lift their muddy feet above the high step of the door frame and then down a few slabs of stone into the court yard.
Their friend the cop leads the way towards one of those funny wall-less houses that the Balinese seem to favour, the bale, a wooden structure on poles two feet off the ground, covered by a thatched roof. He gesticulates for them to sit down. Miles playing the role of sickly tourist slumps down on his side, legs over the edge of the floor. Sawyer, dumps their bags on the ground at his feet and sits next to him and then Kate, a half-assed kind of leaning against it rather than sitting on top of it. As if she's ready to bolt.
He glances at her, knows her jittery nervousness. Can spot it a mile away. With the cop and everything that has happened, it is hardly surprising. She's holding up surprisingly well. Tougher than flint this girl, a strange contradiction to her volatility and the flux of her emotions.
The plump cop comes trundling back, an equally chubby woman walking behind him with a baby in a sling, carrying a thermos by its handle and a few glasses. All in a natural, deft one-handed grip as if the baby has sprouted off her midriff. He imagines that she does everything with the baby right there like a natural extension of her.
"What you want?" the man says while the woman pours the steaming hot fragrant tea into the glasses, with an open handed gesture for them to drink it.
"Our friend here is sick," Sawyer says indicating Miles with his thumb. "We need to bring him to a hospital, down in Sanur if you could lend us a ride…"
The glimmer of the man's intelligent black eyes in the morning sun. Shit. He must buy it.
"Ya, dokter ya? Ada dokter here… I get him."
"Nah, no, my pal here's a bit particular. We really like to get him to the hospital. He's a bit frail… We really just need a car if you got one."
"Ada, ada…" the policeman says in a slow manner that drives Sawyer insane. Just say yes or no for god's sake. " Soon. Car to market, you go with. Terus, bis…bus!"
"Yeah, alright so we'll hitch a ride with you fellows to the market and then we catch the bus, that right?" He takes a grateful sip of the hot tea, relishing in its sweetness, the simple comfort of its warmth.
"Ya, benar. Santai aja, rest here, okay?" the man beams towards him and how the fuck someone can be so jolly in spite of having had his quiet morning disturbed by three bedraggled strangers? The hospitability is incomprehensible to him. Why this family let them inside their compound is beyond him, a murderer and a conman, with a guy who talks to dead people in tow. A bunch of freaks that thinks they've time-travelled and seen god knows what other bizarre stuff. They ought to be thrown in a mental facility, the lot of them. Maybe he more than any of them. After all; he's the one who's fallen like a goddamn stone for her.
"Alright, sounds like a plan buddy..."
The chubby small woman has a cloth tied tightly across her chest and a sarong around her hips, just like her husband. Her hair is a mess, like a black bird nest, but she is friendly and her curious eyes jump between them, taking in her surprise visitors, evaluating them. Sawyer watches fascinated how her muscular arms almost sparkle in the bright sunshine. She leaves the thermos there with them. A charming old-fashioned light blue thermos with some kind of Chinese style peonies on it.
The baby held firmly in place against her chest squirms and with one fluid movement she has freed the infant from the sling and resolutely placed it in Kate's arms and bustles away towards the cluster of small traditional houses, with their weaved bamboo walls.
"Baby," the cop says needlessly as if a clarification is needed and nods towards the little thing. "Baby good luck, new wife. Give many babies, pegang aja, hold it.."
He follows his wife towards the house and Sawyer doesn't get it, why they'd leave the kid with them, strangers, just like that. Must be part of the hospitality. Maybe they just saw the opportunity to unload the squirmy little thing for a while.
"Well then Freckles, you better hold onto that little tot then," he says and though he means it as a joke, just to lighten things up, he notices the sheer panic on her face, the impulse to push the baby away. Watches as she fights herself and clumsily embraces the kid instead. All thumbs as if she's never done this before, in spite of the fact that he's seen her a million times handling Aaron like a pro.
She casts him an fleeting anxious look.
The baby, perhaps a year old or so or fifteen, damned if he knows. It's a little fatty and it seems snug and content in Kate's lap, unaware of her discomfort, little fingers grappling for her hair. It has butter-bronzed skin and is dressed in a cloth diaper and a pint-sized t-shirt, it's head shaved except for a little tuft on top.
He watches as she slowly begins to relax with the kid. The baby is sleepy but curious and soon settles in her arms, head resting against her shoulder, staring up at her lazily while pulling at her wet tangled hair. Kate's thumb moving over the golden skin, over the plump folds of the baby's arm.
Quick as sin, bowing her head down to smell the little tuft of black hair on the crown of the baby's head. He's seen her do it so many times, with Aaron, stolen moments when she thinks no one is looking. Sniffing that kid as if he were A-grade coke. That blissful smile on her lips a hint of sadness intermingled, even now, when everything has been lost. Drawing in the fragrance of this little stranger in her arms. Women and kids, he'll never understand what it is.
"I get that you wanted to be near that little bugger…" he says softly because she looks so goddamn guilty it makes him sick. "But this, it wadn't your fault, not your responsibility… Jack should have looked after them. It's his damn family after all... What, he too busy boozing it up to help out his poor knocked up sister?"
"You don't know anything about that," that hard-headed mulishness of hers. He hates that she defends him. Saint Jack. Still, after all that has happened, apparently nothing can knock him off his goddamn pedestal. The familiar jealousy, an ugly taste of bile.
"Just lay off her Jimmy," Miles butting in and it pisses him off royally. He's got nothing to do with this. With them. Sawyer shoots him a death glare, warning him to stay the hell out of his business. Miles shrugs and returns to looking bored and pretending to be ill.
Her face set harshly, pushing away the feminine soft curves. That stupid detached, fortitude that she never uses for anything positive, only to fight people off with, shut the world out. Him as the improbable, untrustworthy voice of logic, it's ridiculous. And she: pigheaded, clinging to some vague, in her mind heroic, principle drawn entirely from her own obscure map of ethics.
"Well, maybe not… Look, I get that you felt attached to the little thing. But it wasn't your fault. Jackass done the right thing, we wouldn't be in this shit now…You'd be better off producing your own spud than picking up the goddamn slack from Doc…" He hears the words come out, hard and cruel though he doesn't mean it like that. Reaches out to touch her cheek with his free hand, to counteract the callousness of it. And because it seems to be what she needs. What he needs.
Wants her near him. Wants to try to take her back to that moment this morning. That moment when he felt her, felt her giving in. When they where so close. Wants to push her head against his shoulder. Wants to rub her back and feel her breath on his neck, to show her that it's okay. They'll be alright.
"I can't." She tosses off his hand, smacks it away, holding on to the now sleeping baby with her one arm.
Don't touch.
The violence of her. Makes him wonder how the heck she was brought up. The fighting, the fists, the cruelty, it's all normal, everyday stuff to her. He hopes that their host will not see them like this. Retreats, the meek downcast eyes. He hates when she does that. How she bunches up the fabric of the baby's shirt between her fingers, leaving a web of wrinkles.
"Maybe not now, but one day. Meet the right fellow, set up home, a real one and you can just start popping them out." Forcing himself to sound casual about it, sipping the warm tea, feeling the sugar grains between his teeth mixing with the bitterness of the black tea. They both know the impossibility of all of that. He's only talking crap.
"I can't," she repeats like an imbecile, picking with the baby's shirt. Seeking comfort in that little thing. That stiff and hostile look of hers– a sadness, a grief that he wants to run from. That face that says; 'stay away'. Visitors not welcome. Abhors this side of her. Prefers the fighting and the pure anger. This, whatever this is, it's messy and sticky with an undercurrent of something too private. Something he doesn't understand.
"Sure you can baby. It's easy. Piece of cake. You just d-o-n-'t take other peoples kiddo's." He says flippantly, beginning to get seriously annoyed by her monotone idiotic repetition.
"I can't – have - any," she says, jaws taut and tense biting into the words with a type of fury that only sorrow can bring, her eyes finally meeting his. Glassy, dark green, a feverish look and his heart sinks to his feet. The basic, primordial pain in them. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to see this. What the fuck can he say? What the hell does one say to that?
He wishes not for the first time that people, or rather this specific person, came equipped with a manual. Kind of like those instructions on how to safely dismantle a bomb without detonating it.
"Oh hell… look, damn, I didn't know… " he says looking down into the warm glass of tea, little bits of tea leafs twirling around in it. Because seriously, what else is there to say?
Remembers that time at the barracks. Suddenly seeing it a different light now. And hell. He wishes he could go back, take it all back. Have all those things undone, unsaid again. What a total insensitive ass he'd been. No wonder she'd run from him. No wonder she'd scadoobled right over to Doc. He had been spot on when he'd told her he wasn't boyfriend material. Can't even deal with this. She's been telling him to back the hell off from the get-go of this conversation and he just bulldozes on.
She doesn't answer, doesn't say it's okay or any of those contrived platitudes that normal people spread around them to make things less awkward, to cushion the blow with. Just sits there silently beside him. And he doesn't have to look at her to know that her jaws are clenched shut so tightly the nerves vibrate in her cheeks all the way up to her temples.
He's not the crying type but he feels like crying now. For her. For himself. For everything.
And the anger that accompanies it, the annoyance over the casual way she'd thrown it out there, slapped him in the face with it. As if it wasn't anything important. As if it doesn't concern him. Which of course it doesn't – hell, he knows that. They'd known each other for a few months, screwed around, fucked up each other and made one another miserable. That's it. But it still cuts like a hot knife through butter. The even tone she'd used, and then for her to say nothing else. To leave the sad notion of it hanging there, for him to make what he want with it. No explanations, no elaborations.
And he wants to know goddamnit!
It tears him up. How the hell does she know? How can she be so fucking sure?
Wants to interrogate her, strap her to a chair and shine a sharp light in her eyes. Wants to question her, wants to pick up all the facts and data, go over them with a magnifying glass. Wants to know how the hell she can be so sure. He has no right to any of this but he wants, wants to. No - has to. He needs all the evidence handed to him. Wants to sift through whatever proof she believes she has, wants to examine them, scrutinize them. Wants to be able to sneer at her and say that she 's being melodramatic. Wants to be able to dismiss her words with a shrug. Doesn't want it to be true.
And he doesn't understand why, but he feels a devastating loss at her words.
It's not even like he ever wanted a kid with her. Not as if he's ever wanted one, with anyone. Her and him, it would be the worst thing in the world. The fucked-up equation that they are, a mathematical formula that can't be worked out, a default error built into it. Throw a kid into the mix and you'd have the makings of a true tragedy.
Besides; he, the true asshole that he is, was… he has already fathered a kid. Has already spread his useless, pathetic genetic material, carelessly ejaculated his miserable legacy. Has already done enough damage to the world and to one little girl in particular. He'd sworn to himself after the pregnancy scare they'd had on the island, he'd never again let that happen. A religious believer in contraceptives ever since. You'd never catch him with his pants down without a rubber. No sir.
Even with the harmony and stability he'd found with Juliet, he hadn't been able to imagine himself a father. It had been a source of wordless tension between the two of them. But fact is, the mere thought of being a father, the unpronounced fear of becoming like him, his own father, had kept any urge to procreate safely at bay.
And still, in spite of all this, and the absolute logic if it all, he feels a loss at her words. A loss of something he never even wanted in the first place.
A door nailed shut to an impossible possibility.
Her shoulders pulled up tensely. A hand on her and spines might very well shoot out from her back, impaling him.
Don't touch.
The lady of the house swoops down on them, comes back with a tray laden with plates of steaming rice porridge, placing it on the floor of the 'bale' next to them with a gesture that say's 'go ahead'. She carefully disentangles her sleeping baby's little fists from Kate's hair, lifts him up gently and returns to her house.
And they eat. In silence. Observed by a couple of little girls, perhaps six or seven years old. Standing there at a safe distance, watching the three of them intently. Hair in perfect braids, red ribbons tied around them. Matching white and red school uniforms, all knobbly skinny knees and quicksilver black eyes.
Him, peeking at her. Her faced closed off to him and the world. Wants to get through to her. Get through this.
And then, the perverted magic of her.
He watches in awe as she shakes it off. Pushes her sadness away and smiles at the little girls in front of them, making them giggle hysterically. A fighter. That's what she is. Fucked-up and dented and ruined, but she picks herself up from the ground and staggers forward.
Allows himself to secretly swoon. The toothy grin she graces the little girls with.
They're in the cab of an old pick up truck. The back is loaded with vegetables and fruits presumably going to the market, and a few smiling young women and a grandmother poised gracefully on top as if this death-wish ride was every day common stuff which naturally it is.
The driver is a young skinny man, who doesn't look old enough to shave yet. Miles is wedged in the middle and Sawyer mashed up the left door of the cab with Kate on his lap trying to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling every time the truck goes over a bump or into a pothole.
It's hot in the cab, the windows rolled down, or perhaps there are no windows, she isn't sure and the wind does nothing to cool them down. White hot air flushing against her face. She can feel her shirt sticking to her skin, how perspiration runs down her back and at her temples. Her hair flying every which way.
His thighs hard and solid under her and he keeps moving his hands, from resting them on his own legs, her thighs, her hips, her waist and then back down again. The fidgeting, usually her department, not his. But this, between them. The shift, the sense of something real evolving. And they are both too frail, there is too much cowardice between them to own up to it. Mostly hers.
Can't think of him now. Can't think of Aaron or Claire either. Can't keep wondering where they are and what on earth Widmore wants with them. What the heck would you want with a young single mother and a baby? Doesn't want to think at all. The void too large, the ravine too deep. She can't go there. What will she do now? She's lost and she doesn't want to look forward, can't look back. All that she has lived for, for the last few years. Gone. Just like that.
The heat and the sense of loss makes her irritable. When his hands come back to rest on her hips for the umpteenth time she is seething.
"Get your hands off," she says sotto voce, but loud enough for Miles to turn to give them one of his trademark disdainful looks, dark circles tattooed under his eyes.
"And where would you suggest I put them ma'm?" he sneers back.
"I don't care, as long as they're not anywhere on me."
He doesn't answer, just slides those long tapered hands at the side of his own thighs, thumb resting on hers legs and it's enough. It sends a current, fizzing and whirring within her. That thirst for him that he always manages to bring. She squirms, because it's hot and she can't get comfortable. Trying to hold onto the dashboard in front of her, to put as little weight as possible on him.
"You're gonna' wanna stop moving like that," he hisses in her ear.
"I'm not doing anything…" she retorts turning her head as far around as it goes to look at him. His stubble long and dark in the sharp morning light. His lips suddenly too near hers. Her eyes automatically drawn to them. And he knows.
"Whatever you say sweetheart, as long as you stop rubbing that pretty little rump against me," he wheezes teeth grinding against each other, nodding downwards. "Save it for later…"
"Classy as ever…" her voice hushed and snooty. The obvious bulge under her, annoyingly arousing. And just to bug him, or just because she knows it's frustrating for him, she decides to make it worse. She moulds her sweaty back against his chest, so close she can feel his heart pumping against her, and it's too hot. She leans her head back on his shoulders and burrows in her ass against his crotch.
"Oh fuck it Kate," he exhales and it makes her smile in spite of everything. His arms that don't move but his thumbs, rubbing against the sides of her thighs. The longing for the little house in Sanur floods her. The yearning for something simpler. A steamrolling desire smothers her, the thought of that bed waiting for them, the comfort of clean white sheets against her skin. With him.
They are dropped off at a small town centre and it takes them several hours to locate a bus that is going south, the perplexed locals sending them here and there, unclear of what they want. They have some food at the side of the road while waiting. The bus is like something out of a movie. Goats, chicken, people, you name it.
Cramped and crowded and hot but at least they each manage to find a seat. And he thanks his lucky star because he couldn't have lasted a moment longer with her in his lap. Annoyed by his own weakness, his pathetic need for her. What is he; fifteen?
It's late afternoon when they finally reach Sanur. Dusty, dog-tired and smelly. Kate's and Miles' cellphones are both dead, out of batteries since the previous night's black out so they make their way to the Emporium first, take a cab for the little stretch rather than dragging their luggage all the way.
Hurley is in his office when they stumble in.
"Dudes? What are you doing back?" his surprise at seeing the three of them. "Where's Claire?"
Miles and Sawyer exchange uncomfortable glances.
Henry's quickly called into Hurley's service. Given a promise of neat little wad of cash if he can find anything, any trace at all of Danan and Widmore. Of Claire and Aaron. A favour with the local police and Hurley's contacts at the Immigration office is called in to. Everything they can possibly think of. Short of calling in the cavalry.
It's all they can do. And it doesn't feel enough. Far from it. A mauling sense of loss eating at them all. And no one says the obvious, but all of them are thinking of it, of that he's sure.
The island. They have to get back to the island.
He for one, sure as hell isn't going along with it. He's done with that damned hellhole, too much pain and loss associated with it. Hell, he ain't never going back again.
Kate.
Looking lost on that red sofa in Hurley's fancy office. He knows that she will. Her sense of loyalty far exceeds her survival instincts. She'll do anything for that kid. He knows it. Just doesn't want to think of it, the implications of it. Not now.
Miles animosity grates at him. He is still sullen and quiet and refuses to say anything outside what the bare necessities require. Miles asks Hurley to put him up at the Emporium, says he can't stand being in that house again. Like a ghost house without Claire and Aaron.
He leaves with Kate. None of them saying anything, just a coincidence that they will go back to the house, only the two of them. Her arm that brushes by his as they make their way through the door of the hotel. Electrifying. Her skin against his. Imagines them going back, 'home'. Imagines them falling down on that bed, the one with the pristine linen. Her feeling safe there with him. Imagines the two of them there, making love, entangling themselves in those sheets, in each other. And he catches himself. It's a laughable concept. He never thinks of it – as making love. Too sentimental, too simpering a word for something he used to do to for money. The sleeplessness must be getting to him.
He walks behind her down the beach path. Watches as she lugs her heavy bag with her, not offering to help because he wants an excuse to lag behind, to watch the small of her back, her ass in those snug blue jeans as she struggles ahead. Likes to imagine what will happen next, even though it seems a very remote possibility that anything good will come out of this hellish day.
He throws his stuff down on the sofa in the living room and looks up to see her stand there in front of the door to her room. Like a question mark. As if she's waiting. But he isn't going to help her out. If she wants him to sleep in there with her, she can just damn well say so. He can't do this for her. Over and over again. Swallowing down the thought of those white sheets and her bare legs around him. The pathetic kind of domestic bliss he's daydreaming about.
"What?" he tosses it carelessly her way as if he didn't know.
A hesitation that just flitters by before she clams up.
"Did you wanna' say something?" he prods, knowing damn well what she's waiting for.
"No. Nothing." Pinching her lips. But her eyes, the way she looks at him under those lashes. Come on, he thinks. We can do this. But hell, no. He ain't going to do it all for her.
"Ah, I see what this is… You were expecting me to sleep with you weren't ya'?" Grins at the inadvertent double entendre.
"Ha! No. I don't expect anything from you." Snippity-snap, they're back to that. The reassuring familiarity of it all. Watches as she leaves him there. And though he can feel the invisible tow towards her room, wants to follow her in there, wants nothing else, he's not going to. Next one will have to come from her. Wants what he saw this morning. That openness.
After all that has happened his nerves are in a tassel and as tired as he is, he's also frustrated beyond reason. So he smokes. Cigarette after cigarette until there is a pile of butts in the sleek stone ashtray out on the porch and he feels like throwing up from all the nicotine.
And he waits.
He knows she's coming. Knows the sort of pent-up energy that's buzzing under her skin, the anticipation building until it's impossible to keep under lid. He knows it because he can feel it too. It's been escalating all day. Needs a conclusion, a release. Needs to draw on that, the waking up with her this morning. That flighty, intangible sense of being onto something. Because hell, this can't be it. There must be a dimension, a universe in which they could exist together. In which she'd trust him enough to let him. In.
It takes longer than he'd thought. But then she's there. In a rush of air. Standing there, a bit out of place. A big fat sulk on those plump lips, a shy, disgruntled determination that thrills him. That gorgeous pink hue to her cheeks.
He breathes easier after that.
"Hi there…"
" Hi yourself…" she says crabbily. And he loves her like that. It automatically gives him the upper hand. Makes him brave, shuts away the stifling awkwardness of today. Back to what they know. She's showered and changed her clothes. That flimsy red top that just begs for hands to glide in, for shoulder straps to slide down. The straps of a black bra underneath, a gap, flash of skin between the top and the military green cargo pants. It's just…. Shit. Yeah, he might as well have been fifteen. The way he can't help ogling her.
"To what do I owe the honour?" Turns it around. Decides to make it no secret that he likes the way she looks.
"I can't sleep…" She doesn't say 'alone', but he hears it anyway, echoing after she's closed her mouth again. She squeezes in between the daybed and the chest serving as a table, sits her ass down there right in front of him. Her knees between his. Jeans against drab green cargoes. Expectant.
"You an' me both Sweetcheeks. So waddaya' wanna' do?" he leers at her. Mostly because that's what he does and to cover up the indecisiveness of seeing her there. The Vulnerability that it puts him in. The wanting to just pull that red top over her head.
"I don't know. I really don't know what to do now," she says elbows on knees, abruptly dropping her face in her hands, and she sounds so low, so crushed that he can't make it into a joke. Want to comfort her but doesn't know how to go about it. Knows her well enough to know that it might well backfire. Unstable like a stack of old dynamite.
"Whaddaya' say, you wanna' keep old Sawyer company out here?"
"Yeah," she whispers into the palms of her hands and he has to fight the urge to touch her hair. "Yeah."
"I know something we can do Freckles …" he murmurs leaning forward waiting for her to lower her hands from her face. His breath caressing her cheek, that Southern twang that sounds like an indecent proposition no matter what. "I know something that'll perk you right up..."
He slowly heaves himself up from the daybed and she wonders if she's supposed to follow him inside. Watches his laid-back swagger slash shuffle across the porch. The way he bows down to enter the low door to the house, this beautiful impossible man.
She waits. Her feet twitching to go in after him.
He comes back with two chilled bottles of vodka. Two large bottles. Much too much for the two of them to drink. Showing off the dimples in a crooked smile. Anticipation pearling off him as he cradles the bottles like twin babies in his arms.
"You thought I meant sex didn't you Puddin'?"
She can roll her eyes as much as she wants at this, but fact is, she sort of did and she wouldn't have put up much resistance had that been the case. He's had a shower and his hair is silky and clean around his face. He smells of soap and tobacco and she'll be damned if he hasn't shaved too. Seems like someone is banking on romance tonight.
"Nope, but you're clearly hoping for it," she taunts him hitching her chin up.
He gives her a come-hither kind of leer that would have looked outrageous on anyone else but just makes her cheeks heat up.
"Well maybe I've got a date…"
"With your hand most likely…"
"Aw, I see what this is baby. Missing the old hand are we? Well, that could be remedied…" he sidles down in front of her. One leg on each side of her knees, giving her a little squeeze by pushing his thighs together.
"Yeah don't flatter yourself buddy," she says indifferently but can't help dropping her gaze to his beautiful hands and realizes that the son of a bitch has done a bit of manicure too. Nails clipped short, filed perfectly round as well. This absurd metro-sexual obsession, the pride he takes in keeping his hands groomed, so contradictive to his red-neck persona.
"We have time for that too Sweets… " he says noticing her eyes on his hands and his lazy drawn out vowels stir up an oppressive impatient longing within. "But right now, I reckon you and me need a big old drink."
"Two bottles? Are you kidding – you want to kill us Sawyer?" They both have this, this destructive predisposition, a penchant for drama.
"Well if you ain't drinking, I'll drink it all myself," he says offhandedly, smirking at her. "And we wouldn't want that, would we? Might put a big ol' damper on the other stuff… later…"
"Yeah that would really be too bad, " she snaps, the flirtation getting to her, feeling her top stick to her back. She is tired but that mouth-watering energy that he gives off keeps her alert. Can't relax for one second with him, can't let him win. That competitive streak in both of them.
"Wouldn't it just?"
"Okay, give me that." She reaches for the bottle in the hand nearest to her. He teases her, swiftly sweeping his arm up, away, out of reach.
" U-hu… you wanna' drink you're gonna' have to play Freckles…you know the deal…" Flicking his hair back, tongue in cheek.
Holding the bottle above his head, egging her on. She has to smile at him. Just like that, he goes back, back to where they were. This they know and she doesn't want to be bereft tonight. Doesn't want to think of Aaron or Claire or the total disaster that this has all turned into. Wants his easy banter, wants the way they key each other up, their age old foreplay that never leads anywhere.
"That trick won't work this time. I know, and you know, that those bottles are Hurley's. Not from your secret stash."
"How do you know?" he says playing offended, bottom lip protruding predictably. "You wanna' drink or not Sugarpops?
"Yeah alright, give it here!"
She takes the chilled bottle stretched towards her. It's unopened and she struggles a bit with the aluminium cap, slippery from the humidity.
"My, ain't you the eager beaver?" he teases as he watches her fight with it, finally twisting it open.
"It's your company… need to numb my senses," she says and he lets out a chortle. Moving a little closer. Them there, in front of each other. The delight at the game they play, the way they toy with each other. It makes everything better.
"Well, ain't you all about the flattery Freckles… ?" A quick little press of his knees against hers before he slides them away, gives her space. "Okay then, you know the drill already. Go ahead, shoot!"
His dark blue shirt, sleeves folded up and the maple syrup of his skin beneath. His wrists, fine and sculptured. Makes her want to kiss his hands. She watches as he changes his grip around his bottle. Thighs wide apart as he sits, the picture of manly confidence, dangling the bottle by its neck between his knees. Make her want to take him down a notch. Expose his weakness.
"I've never been jealous at a gay man," she says quietly and looks at him. He nods, irritated, eyes narrowing – he's so transparent.
"Ouch, so the gloves are off - so that's how it's gonna be huh darling?"
His chagrin evident. She cocks her eyebrows towards him, towards the drink. But it's light. This thing between them, not so loaded, both of them relaxing at the familiarity of the teasing, the bantering. A little normalcy after the horror of the last twenty-four hours. And she doesn't want to think of that now. Wants to escape for a moment.
"Come on, just play the game….and don't be a sore looser. This was all your idea! "
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up Honeypie." He says in a deadpan voice, taking a small sip and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. Baring his teeth to her, as he draws the drink in between his teeth. Wolfish, like a big shaggy dog.
She starts to get comfortable, pulls her legs up on the table, sits cross-legged opposite of him, feeling strangely happy there. With him.
Has missed this. The instigation of a power struggle, both of them grappling for control. It's harsh and ruthless on the surface, but underneath it all, a trembling warmth. The fear for that thread of intimacy buried somewhere at the core of it.
"Okay then. My turn then… well, well, what's it gonna' be…" he says curling his lip in a way that tells her the game is on. Tells her he's not going to be nice about it. "I've never jumped a man in a bathroom … and by jumped I mean…"
"Yeah yeah, I know exactly what you mean," she mutters grumpily and drinks. He chuckles, flicking back his hair. Satisfied to get to her so easily.
They hear the splat-splat-splat of raindrops falling on the roof above them. Both stupidly looking up. The rain is light and the evening gentle and calm. The fragrance from the frangipani trees and of incense from somewhere nearby.
"Waddaya' know, more rain…" he says quietly, velvety eyes catching hers. And it's all she can do not to lean forward and kiss him, to push him back on the daybed. Take him. "I thought they might have run out of the stuff the other night…"
She doesn't answer. She's not ready to joke about it yet. She doesn't think she'll ever be. Just taking a short break from the sadness, doesn't want to think about it. She pulls a stray hair behind her ear and fastens her eyes on the ceiling above his head. The little lizards moving stealthily, looking for tonight's dinner.
"I have never travelled across the world only to bug someone," she says lightly to the lizards.
"Ha ha, very funny," he grouches and knocks back a generous slurp, grumbling while he drinks. "Wadn't only 'bout that Freckles."
"Drink up buddy," she says, her turn to gloat. The warmth at the core of her from the air he gives off. The sense that there are undercurrents of something important here, something sensual, affectionate. Something tender that doesn't quite dare to declare itself.
"Well, my turn again then I guess….I have…well you see Freckles, I have never been engaged." A hit under the belt. She knows he must have found out about her failed engagement to Jack. It bothers her anyway. She drinks alone, takes two distinct swigs from her vodka. Feeling the coolness as it makes its way down her throat to her belly. "Yeah, that's right. Two times huh?"
"Shut up," she quips quietly. "Okay, so next one is me then…" She pretends to think, clicking her fingernails against the glass of her bottle. "I have never… pretended to be an asshole to cover my feelings."
He doesn't drink and neither does she. They just sit there, looking coolly at each other. Laying claim to a brash confidence that neither of them truly possesses.
'So I guess that just comes naturally then… the asshole-ness?"
"Hah, well we won't get much drinking done this way. So… let's get this on the road, waddaya' say Sugarplum?... I've never…. shacked up with a doc, just to get over somebody…" grins naughtily brushing back his stringy hair again and it falls right back in his face. He cocks his head back and nods smugly watching her take a nip from her drink. She lowers it and stares at him expectantly. He looks bewildered until it dawns on him. Reluctantly lifts up his own, holding it between thumb and index finger as he brings it to his lips and takes a large mouthful, making his cheeks bulge.
The sound of him swallowing - hard.
"Hey, waddaya' know. We do have something in common after all." Eyes glittering, boring into her, demanding her attention, making her fidget with the bottle.
"Never slept with anyone for money," she says cruelly. He glugs it down quickly and then throws the ball right back at her, the tempo picking up. Like two fighters circling each other, trying to find an unguarded spot. Get a leftie in.
"I've never played coy 'bout wanting someone in my bed."
She glares at him sitting there biting his bottom lip, as if he's trying to hold back a snigger. Can't help it, wonders why she doesn't just lie about it while her hand lifts the bottle to her mouth as if on autopilot. The liqueur soothing the shame of admitting to it.
"I knew it…" he says under his breath and looks bizarrely happy, his eyebrows shooting up. "Well, you know baby… like I said; all you've got to do is ask… "
"Yeah, that isn't gonna' happen so just shut up Sawyer, it's my turn;… I've never…. never jumped off a helicopter to get away from a girl…"
Both of them immobile, watching each other, anticipating the other's next move. She waits.
"Aren't you going to drink?"
"No. I ain't drinking…am I ? " That argumentative set of his mouth. Shooting out his chin in a way that is far from attractive. As if he'd like to pick a fight about it. The stakes have been upped, abruptly changed the game. The joking light atmosphere evaporates and she wants to cling to it.
The staggering weight of the words hanging above them.
Words that want out, words that demand to be acknowledged. Only neither of them knows how to approach them. Words fraught with dangers and pitfalls and she can't be the one. He is the braver of the two, the one that dares to risk it all, put his guard down and his chin up. Lips open before he gets the words out.
Wavering at the gravity of them.
"I never been in love." Coarse and hot in his throat, a tetchy challenging air about him. Glowering at her as if he is daring her to take the jump.
Last time she'd taken a large swig on her own. He hadn't drunk.
This time.
This time they hoist their bottles up at the same time. His eyes scorching her, making her blush like a stupid little girl, drinking. His Adam's apple moving as he swallows and she fears he will down the whole bottle. He lowers it from his mouth, a swift little lick across his lips and then the smile.
A wicked warm smile that makes her toes curl.
"It's a disaster…" his voice that hums through her veins. "Warrants a big fat gulp dontcha' think?"
And it's too intense, his eyes on her face. Penetrating her. Almost a violation. She has to divert hers, focusing on her hands around the bottle, the thrum of her own heart muffling all other sounds. Not sure if he's said what she thought he said. Though she knows. She knows. Warm fingers making marks on the condensation gathering on the bottle's surface.
Don't go there, she thinks. Feeling her inadequacy folding in on her. He places his drink on the chest, next to her. Does that thing when he shakes a smoke out of the package, his hair falling forward against his cheeks. He has a certain flair for doing it. Mesmerizing to watch his beautiful fingers against the dark red of the package. Strikes a match against its box, with that sly, crack of smile in her direction, cigarette wedged at the corner of his mouth.
His glibness. She knows all that is just plain camouflage. Knows the quivering, unappealing insecurity underneath. He puffs and blows out a small cloud of smoke, a perfect smoke ring. And they both watch it drift away, separate into thin air.
She snatches the cigarette from him, inhales and blows the smoke out through her nostrils. Trying to look cool, just making herself sneeze. The way he watches her. A little edgy, nervous. Ripping the smoke from her, almost aggressively, stubbing it out in the ashtray all done in one swift sequence of movements ending with him gripping her wrist pulling it down against his knee.
"You just have to ask baby…" His nose almost touching hers. And she would. She would, if she thought they stood half a chance.
"Not gonna'" she says, unintentionally imitating his Southern twang. His influence over her. "Are you?"
"Hah, nope darling. It'll be you." Because this is what they do. The combative dance of the two of them. There is safety in this. In not admitting defeat in not letting on what they both know to be true. "You got an appetite Kate?"
And the way he says it, the tempting tone he uses, she doesn't know for sure that this isn't a honey trap. But she is hungry. Hasn't eaten since before they got on the bus.
"Well, yeah…" she says uncertain of what she's answering yes to.
"You do know I still ain't talking about sex right?" Smiling victoriously as he takes the bottle from her and places it on the table next to his, pulling her up standing with him. His chest bumping into hers as she shoots to her feet. Frozen for a second, and she thinks he might kiss her. Hopes. Wants to feel his freshly shaved chin against her own. But he drops his eyes to her feet as if he's out of nerves. And then ushers her ahead, down from the porch, his hands on her waist, fingers managing to find her skin under the edge of her top as he steers her through the courtyard.
"You're an ass Sawyer."
"That's not a very nice thing to say Freckles, I'm about to take you out for dinner, fatten you up and…"
She slides away from him. His hands too searing, too rousing on her. Playful chase across the yard slamming the gate closed behind them. A frolicking sprint through the dark alley, careful not to stumble on the uneven slippery paving. She gets there before him. A street-stall down by the beach, made from tarp and bamboo, making them look at each other. Perhaps both remembering his tarp on the beach, a night like this.
A young boy cooking over a big cheap wok, the sizzling rice spreading a heavenly fragrance. He buys them each a portion wrapped in brown paper with a rubber band around and they make their way down an empty stretch of the beach, near the ocean. They don't care about the light warm rain on their heads and their arms. Don't care that the sand is humid and that their trousers get dirty as they sit down on it. They eat quickly, shoves the food down, eating it with their fingers, scooping it up like they've seen the locals do.
Afterwards they wash their hands in the ocean, crouching down next to one another. And she realizes that for a few moments with him, she's managed not to feel it. He has helped drive it to the side for a little while. That's what he does.
Tomorrow. She knows. Tomorrow it will assault her again, suffocate her, demanding her full attention. Will hold her in its iron grip. But now. Right now. He is here and she doesn't want to think of it.
Wants only him.
She yawns, tries to hide it in her wet hand as she stands up again.
"First back gets the bed Sleepyhead… " he says, rules made up as he goes along for the games they play. Too old for this. Pretending that it's easy, that they can be like this.
He looks at her, and though it's dark, she senses the expectant suspense in his smile. Beyond the flirtation and the banter, he's a little tired, a little watchful and waiting for her. To either embrace him or refuse him. Wants a surrender of the type that she doesn't think she can give. Though she wants to. Wants him. Only wishes she were enough. Her foolish hopefulness whispering that maybe for a while, she can be. Maybe she can pretend. For a little while.
"Race you…"
Then the mad rush back. Hearts in throats, they can't get back fast enough.
Hope you liked it… though I realized that last part went on forever....