Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the great, sweet reviews! I've been really bad at answering lately but it doesn't mean I haven't read and re-read everything you've written in normal obsessive manner.…
Scotty; as usual you make a very valid point. Sawyer wouldn't have been too surprised by Kate's violent tendencies. Wanted to get across his fear over Kate assaulting someone in public since she's a fugitive and all. But maybe a bit sloppy writing on my part...
HeartInCage; I'm glad/sad that you liked that last chapter. I do relate to her. A lot actually. That's probably why I don't see her as a complete victim and why I want there to be hope for her...if that makes sense?
Delamik; Yeah.. I always thought it seemed to fit that Kate might have had pregnancy related problems...
And so sorry, I'm way late with updating. Life has gotten in the way completely. Anyhow, I really hope you will enjoy this and not tear your hair out over the infuriating fickleness of these characters.
Rating: M for language and sexual references… quite a few as it turns out, though most of them imagined.
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it is.
Another swerve
They get home and he topples over one of the armchairs as they enter the dark house, making a hell of a racket.
The door to Miles' room flies open, the light is switched on, flooding the living room in a way that makes her want to cower behind Sawyer. Jack's sleepy face surveying them from top to toe and she doesn't blame him for the faint look of disgust. They must look like crap. Her dress, bloody and torn and his shirt, flecked and soiled. Both missing shoes and both of them plain drunk. Neither completely able to refrain from swaying. Sawyer has a steady grip around her waist and frankly it doesn't really help all that much, just doubles the frequency of tripping up.
"What? What happened to her? Is she okay?"
Realizes that if she never has to see Jack's forehead in those concerned folds again, she'll be quite happy. Sober enough to find it immensely irking that he asks Sawyer, not her. As if she is not entirely sane, as if her answer couldn't be trusted.
"Run into a spot of trouble. Go back to sleep Doc!" He's bearish and abrupt and she can tell that his patience is already way below zero.
"What do you mean 'trouble'? Has she been in an accident?" He comes nearer, puts a hand on her naked arm that makes her cringe. He must sense it because he pulls it back quickly.
Go away Jack, she thinks and this is new, this intolerance to him. Maybe it's all the alcohol consumed, or the fact that he stands there wringing his hands like a disapproving father.
"Nope – entirely and totally self inflicted Jacky-boy." That ornate way that Sawyer has. As if he's permanently on a scene, always in the spotlight. It's annoying as hell and she doesn't know why she lets him answer on her behalf. It ought to have her seething but she's too wiped out to deal with Jack right now. Too tired to pretend to be that person he expects.
"Self inflicted? She did that too herself?"
"Our girl fell off a bar stool. Drunk as a boiled owl, ain't you just Freckles?" And she'll be damned if he didn't' just pat her behind in an incredibly condescending way.
But as annoying as this is; Jack paddling after them and Sawyer ushering her ahead towards the kitchen like a wayward child, she has to admit that she's finding a certain entertainment value in this little rude exchange. Jack and his 'take-charge' attitude, almost pushing Sawyer out of the way. As if the two of them are trying their best to play the worst version of themselves. And perhaps they are.
"Here, I'll do it…I'll clean her up, if you can get me some cotton and …" A dismissive hand-wave in Sawyer's direction.
"Nah, I've got it. I'll fix her up." Roughly yanking her with him. As if he'd rather hurt her then let Jack get near. Something primitive about the two of them, plainly more interested in winning some macho competition for dominance than taking care of her.
"But… I can…"
"You go and catch some sleep Doc," Sawyer snaps and she thinks that as vile as he is, he might be the lesser of two evils. Too drunk and too tired to deal with Jack's intrusive eyes. His judgmental silence, so unlike Sawyer's bitching. There is a strange comfort in the way he scolds her. The way a mother-hen might fuss over her chicks. A little bit rough, nagging and badgering. An irritated impatience covering up something real. Something warm.
She can tell that Jack hesitates for a moment.
"It's okay Jack," she mumbles. "I'm alright really."
"Go on now Doc, I might not have a goddamn medical degree but I do think I'm capable of cleaning up after a little cat-fight. Happens to be my forte as a matter of fact..."
That arrogance he's got. Impossible to argue with. She would laugh but her face hurts way too much. He's warm and solid against her side and she finds herself missing him when he suddenly lets go and shoves her ahead of him, a forceful hand on the small of her back.
"You sure Kate?" Jack asks softly. She can only manage a half nod, trying to keep her head back, the sickening taste of blood flowing from nose into mouth, less messy than the outside route. Though her dress is already ruined anyway, big red blotches on the cream silk fabric, a ripped seam all the way from the hem up to her thigh.
Oh, he's got to love that.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Goodnight Jack, sorry if we woke you..."
Sawyer snorts at that. Jack retiring quietly, admitting defeat. She has to roll her eyes at Sawyer's victorious smirk when the lock of Jack's door clicks closed out there. Left alone, the two of them, suddenly he's no longer the sleazy macho fighting for the scraps of a girl. He's all business. Waits as she enters the kitchen in front of him. Giving her a little faux polite bow of the head and gesturing towards the kitchen counter.
"After you Ma'm…"
"Asshole."
"I get called that a lot lately, which is funny seeing as how I'm the asshole who made your little faint heart flutter this very morning."
"Ha, yeah and the very same who stomped on it afterwards."
"If you say so… Have a seat Rocky! If you're good I might read you a chapter from our favorite book later."
He signs to her to jump up on the kitchen counter. And why on earth she obeys, she doesn't know, only that it's irresistible in an aggravating way. Him and her, here.
"Great. Can't wait," she mutters.
He opens one of the cabinets, takes out a box. His hair, shiny with little tiny grains of sand glimmering under the sharp kitchen-light. His hands, the long fingers, opening up that first aid kit, getting the cotton swabs out, the iodine. He's done this before, she reflects. Probably been in enough bar fights. Or maybe helped Juliet out, at the clinic. But she doesn't want to think of that now. Not now when his soft big palm comes up to rest on her brow, bending her head backwards, eyes a dark gray and squinting at her as if he's trying not to smack her himself.
"You looking to get caught?"
"Nope."
"Well it sure as hell looked like it to me. Thought you were gonna' kill that girl!"
Turns on the faucet and runs one hand under it while still keeping the other on her forehead. Wipes her entire face by just using his large wet palm, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut. Finding a simple animalistic pleasure in this. Her knees against his thighs, sitting there on the low counter. Trying not to swing her legs against the kitchen cabinets beneath.
"I would have… if some big oaf hadn't pulled me off," she mumbles into the warm skin of his hand. Suddenly wants to kiss it. He smells like lemons and salt. The way it feels against her lips, the little lines and wrinkles inside of it.
He laughs at that, a narrow stingy laughter, as if he doesn't want to give her too much leeway. Wants to gripe and grouse a little more.
"I ain't giving you no conjugal visits at the Bali Hilton Princess…"
"Wasn't counting on it." Resisting sticking her tongue out to taste his hand. It's silly, is what it is. The love and the desire for him, hopelessly interwoven. Impossible to distinguish the two. But there is something else as well. Being taken care of like this. A memory of something. Maybe her mother, though her mother was never this gentle. Cleaning her up after a fall from her bike, from the rough and tumble she'd inevitably been drawn to. The scolding and patching up.
"I reckon you gonna' have a pretty nice shiner by tomorrow…"
He puts some iodine on a cotton bud and draws it against the cut across her nose where she'd smashed into Dewi's skull. It's funny how he's the one grimacing, not her. The icy coolness against her skin, stinging a little as he rubs lightly across a gash. Dabs repeatedly at her nostrils that just don't want to stop oozing thick crimson red.
"Remind me to never cross you again girl…"
Tears off two little pieces of cotton, rolls them cylinder shaped. Stuffs the little rolls gently, one into each nostril. His face above hers, hair swinging forward, tickling her face. Pissed and edgy. Eyes sourly on the task at hand. And she can't help it, her eyes drawn to his lips. Watching the rough texture of them, a little dry, a little chapped. His front teeth that bite down into the bottom lip as he concentrates, a tiny little chip missing. His eyes hitching on hers for a second. God knows she isn't exactly a temptation right now, and as absurd as the notion is, she still she gets the feeling he's about to kiss her. Too close. It makes her nervous. Impossible to sit still.
"Christ! You're like a worm on a hook the way you squirm."
She's got no idea know why she does it, maybe it's simply the beauty of those hands. Or that she's drunk and reckless. When he brings a clean cotton bud and some more iodine up to her face for a third time, she catches on to his wrist. Making him drop everything on the floor.
The way he frets over her.
"What the… If you ain't gonna' sit still, I'll have to get Jackass," he mutters. "An' you know how much he's gonna' love that."
But he comes back up, presses himself nearer to her. Purposely wedging himself between her legs, making the slippery fabric of the dress slither up over her thighs. Comes closer yet, hard against her now, leaning onto her. She opens up, purposely embracing him between her thighs and his scowl falls away a little. But he keeps the act up. The cool cotton, his fingertips wiping across her brow, more a caress than medical care. The proximity of him, his face a few inches from hers. Acutely aware of her nakedness under the dress.
Has to force herself to breathe slowly through her mouth and not push against him but it's impossible. He stops what he's doing and presses back. A little huff, escaping his lips. And oh, if she only dared. If only she were braver. She'd have kissed him then, would have unfastened his belt and undone the buttons on his jeans. Wouldn't have given a hoot to whether Jack might be coming prancing in any second. The heat growing, unbearably adamant. If only she were braver, or drunker she'd have done something about it. And maybe he's thinking the same because he shuts his eyes tightly only to open them again. Just stands there looking at her as if he's about to say something, lips a little pointed. Her own fear mirrored in his gaze. Hesitating. Eyes, a dusky sad blue. Come, come.
Maybe it's the adrenaline shock from the fight or maybe it's just him. Wants him. In spite of everything. Like this morning. His jeans against the insides of her bare thighs. Wants to whisper; come, come, come. Clasps her hands against the edge of the counter not to touch him.
He leans a little backwards, pretending to study her nose, a minute little movement of the hips almost sending her off.
"Damned, that snout is swollen Freckles. Ain't sure it will ever be the same again. This what they call poetic justice huh…?"
He pulls away just enough to break the contact of denim against sultry, humming need. The moment lost. That second of opportunity when she could have just reached for him. Could have let the tip of her tongue moisten his dry lips. Could have gone for it.
He chucks the used cotton buds towards the sink beside her, not caring that he misses it by a few feet.
"Guess so," she concedes, sounding congested and stuffed and a little silly with those cotton rolls sticking out of her nose. The moment is definitely gone. Guess he's not really turned on by the whole beat-up boxer thing. It makes her snort and he glares at her.
"Hey, don't want those things coming flying out like projectiles. Gross enough as it is."
Admonishing. But the way he looks at her. His fingers on her arm for just a fraction of a time, they say something else. And so does the way his chest rises and falls. THe breaks the eye contact first, jerks his head towards her legs so that his fringe whisks by her face.
"Better take care of those knees of yours as well. Wouldn't wanna' leave sand and crap stuck in them… Have Doc nag about infection… an' how I didn't do a good job an' all…"
The scratches and cuts, not sure when she got them. The fight, a complete blur like they always are for her. They don't really hurt in any case, just a light throbbing that could easily be ignored. Especially with him here. His shirt ruined by her blood. She'll wash it for him in the morning. Will repay him for this, somehow.
He bends down there on the floor, sits up on his haunches and she realizes that he has an excellent view up her skirt, which he acknowledges with that leer of his, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. A little throaty 'u-ummm' before she quickly draws her knees together pulling at the hem. He places his palm against the side of her kneecap Wonders if he'll venture up, if it's that kind of mood he's in. And sure enough. He clears his throat and the fingers sweep in under, up her thigh. Hears him draw his breath deeply, as if regretting the rash movement. Fingers pulled away. His moment of weakness, it's brief and then he's back to business, cleans the scrapes carefully, briskly, his hands gentle, but it stings like hell anyway and she can't help wincing. He won't have any of that.
"Cut it out Freckles. You wanna' play rough, these are the consequences. Just saying… I'd had my way we'd be making out in the sand right now but no, you had to go an' instigate a goddamn fisticuff…"
"Seems a fisticuff might have been the infinitely more satisfying option… " She means it to come out mockingly but he grins at her and smugly plasters a couple of nice large band aids on, finishing off with a kiss. Carefully placed right on top of her knee-caps, one on each. A little patronizing slap on her thigh as he stands up.
"If you say so Shortcake. Anyhows… I'd say you're good to go."
And it's a sort of cease-fire. None of them says anything else. He just throws an arm around her waist and swings her down. Doesn't let go and she finds herself, standing there, chest to chest with him, breathing through her mouth. Notices that he does the same, though he has no valid reason to. Hot breath against hot breath. Her nostrils stuffed with cotton, her dress a bloody mess and this man. This man that puts the J into jerk, the astonishing sweetness of him.
He brings his fingers up to her brow, one arm still holding on to her, around her waist pressing her against him. Fingertips following her hairline, brushing away strands sticking to her forehead. He's so close. The texture if his skin in the sharp kitchen light, smooth and honeyed. Only the fine lines around his eyes betraying his age. Rough short stubble that divulges a darker secret than the blonde hair on his head wants to profess to.
And it seems too much to let go now, but neither of them have what it takes to get over the awkwardness.
"Let's sleep," he says simply. And she wants to ask; is he coming with her?
Come, come, come.
Wants to reach up, flit her lips across his. And he looks almost shy standing there. Now that his fingers have smoothed away her hair from her brow, he doesn't seem to know what to do next.
He lets go.
All of a sudden, retracting his hands, stepping back. A silent question in his eyes but he says nothing more. She ends up just standing there like a big pathetic idiot. Nose jam-packed with cotton, watching his back, broad and a little sloping, disappearing through the doorway.
Wants to call him back. Run after him. Stay.
But she knows him.
He's never one to just leave things be. He won't quit in the middle of a winning streak. He'll come back for more.
And she doesn't have to wait long. She hardly has time to throw herself fully dressed, headlong on the bed, before he walks straight into her bedroom as if he's got all the right in the world to be there.
Book in his hand, balancing it as he quickly slips his shirt over his head, freeing his arms from it. Her blood on him, ruby spots all across the front and his shoulders. Drops it on the floor and she blushes stupidly when he starts unbuckling his belt, one-handed unbuttoning of his denims. How he has corrupted her. His overt glee over her discomfort. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. Self-assured. Knows how she can't deny him. Steps out of his jeans there and then, struggling to tug them over his feet. Looses his cool a bit to her great satisfaction, wobbling on the floor. His head bent downwards, honey-blonde hair in his face catching the light from her night lamp.
"What are you doing?" Hardly the time for romance. Her nose as big as a melon. But then again, the skin, impossibly fine for a man. There is just so much of it, smooth caramel toffee. And she knows he doesn't taste like that. Knows he doesn't smell like that either. That fragrance of his; in stark contrast to the maple syrup dreams his skin evokes. But no less irresistible. Spicy, sensual and heady.
"Hey, I'm only here to make sure you don't snort to death on those cotton buds." Kicks his denims across the room as if they are likely to crawl back and attack him otherwise. And he's far too conscious of the effect his naked skin has on a woman, the combination of smooth and rough, masculine and boyish.
"Sure, I get it."
She hates how she automatically looks down, cocoa brown boxers, how a girlish flutter of the eyelashes can't be helped. And she should be used to it by now. Ought not to fall for this act. It's ridiculous. She hurries to creep under the single cotton sheet, feeling naked and vulnerable like this now. Just the dress on, nothing underneath. What the hell had she been thinking? She'd been prepared to sleep with him there, right on the beach. No inhibitions at all. But now, here, in the relative normalcy of the house. It ought to be different; she ought to have some kind of self-control.
"Yeah, so whatever other filthy things you had in mind little missy, you can just forget 'em…"
She just smiles at this, feeling safer with the familiar repartee. Smiles and pulls those disgusting pieces of cotton out from her nose, shielding herself with a hand. Placing them under a tissue on the bedside table. Soaked with blood, one finger under her nose to see if it has stopped. Seems like it.
His grin wide and wicked. Perhaps enjoying how disgustingly pathetic she is.
"Scoot over!" he says and makes himself comfortable next to her. Grunting as he tries to loosen the tucked-in corners of the sheet. Slinking under smooth as an eel. Bastard. Him in his boxers, and all that skin. She rolls around quickly, turning her back on him and it's useless because he does what he wants. Exactly like he wants with her. Just brings her in close to him. Back against chest. Oh god. "Gonna' read you a goodnight story. Think the problem with you is, you read far too little good literature."
"So this is what you call good literature?" Wiggles backwards a little. Mostly just to test him. And she feels him stirring, even now. Figures. But he doesn't let anything on.
"Sure is, Sugar. The very best."
Can't help herself. Melts against him like butter on a toast, wishing there were no thin layers of silk dresses or boxers between them. His right hand with the book resting on her hip, a clumsy, impractical one-handed flip through the pages while his other arm scoots in under her neck. Left hand landing on her breast as if this was by pure accident.
"So where were we…? Well Brigitte woke up completely nekkid… sensual dreams and all…" voice like butterscotch sauce, flowing over her. His palm moving lightly over her nipple, as much as the awkward position allows for. He's terrible. Bites her lip not to let out a sound.
Let him think he has no effect on her whatsoever.
"Was it Fredo?" Poorly feigned interest, the tips of his fingers circling her breast ever so lightly. Infuriatingly soft.
"No, pay attention," he snaps crisply, as if it's not two in the morning and they're completely sloshed. As if they were in a civilized setting, and as if this were an entirely normal thing for them to do. "She left with Carlo, remember?"
He reads and explains to her the intricacies of the story. And some things just have to be demonstrated. At a particularly vigorous reenactment the book is dropped on the floor. When he reaches down to pick it up again, she snakes her hands down beneath the sheet. Mostly because she's a little cold. And also because she needs to hide. His voice alone, that intonation of his, giving her goose-bumps where there should be none.
"Hey, hey hey! Keep those hands where I can see them!" He flings the book across the room and she half hopes he'll hit something breakable. Pulls the sheet off her completely. Hand on her hip, peppery hot through the thin fabric.
She holds her breath. This. She knows this game. Knows where it's going and she can't say she doesn't want to see it through.
"Ain't gonna' let you take any liberties now. Know girls like you… just waiting to take advantage of a charitable man..."
"Your are that though…very charitable…"
"Well hell… if I ain't feeling a little charitable right now."
""No…no I don't think…" she protests but honestly. It's a very feeble protest, imuffled by his hands reaching up at level with her head, as if about to caress her face but diverted at the last moment.
"What!" Indignant smirk. "Just plumping your pillow. What did you think I was gonna' do Sugar?" He sniggers annoyingly, a little poke at her pillow.
"Shut up Sawyer."
"Goodnight to you too Honeybee," he murmurs scooching closer. Letting his fingers flow over her hips, down to the hem of her dress, slowly, carefully skimming, edging the skirt up over her thighs. She slaps a palm across his hand, stopping his advance upwards.
"Hey… buddy, " she says threateningly. She's still miserably drunk and, well; her whole face feels like a tank has rolled over it. Besides, across the living room lies Jack. In Miles bedroom, probably sleeping but still. Much as she wants to she can't do it. Can't let anything happen tonight.
"What? I ain't doing nothing…" he says innocently, sitting up hastily so that the entire bed shakes."'Sides I reckon, if you really didn't want my hand up your skirt, you'd be wearing some goddamn underwear."
"Christ," she says because, well, he's got a point.
"It's because of Doc, ain't it? Scared he'll hear us do the dirty ain't you Honey?" he sneers, managing to look both nervous and arrogant at the same time.
Suddenly afraid he'll up and leave. The lure of his taut stomach disappearing down into the chocolate of the boxers. An obvious bulge there. He can't be right, can't be sane if he's turned on by this mess. Her like road-kill there on the bed. But he can't leave.
"No," she mumbles. "No that's not it."
He studies her mutely for a moment, lets his eyes dash from her feet to her face as if he could decipher her that way.
"Yeah Darling, that's exactly what it is," he says nodding to himself, bracing his arms to rise from the bed. Her hand stretching forward, a light stroke across the fine curve of his biceps. His eyes tightening on her. Preparing for a fight, racking his brain to say something cutting. Shit. His baffling lack of self confidence. It always comes back to this. And she knows she is somewhat to blame.
"Fuck it girl… Is it… you're regretting it, ain't you? You and me?"
She shakes her head so vigorously her hair lashes against her own face. Her fingers following the outline of his arm all the way down to his hand and how her throat constricts as he clutches hold of it. His gaze on her, licking her skin, an unmistakable quiver in the region of her heart. He can't leave her here tonight. She won't allow it.
"You wanna'…?"
"Wanna' what now Sweetcakes?" he says warily as if she might suggest something outrageous. As if he's expecting some kind of perverted proposition from her.
"Could you sleep here,... I mean, with me?" Nerves vanquished, the relief of letting the words spill out.
"What about Jackass? Not scared he'll find out?" Still a little suspicious. Eyes hard on her. His grip around her hand, equally forceful. As if he'd like to put her though a lie-detector.
"No."
And that's all it takes. A little affirmation. I want you. Come, come, come.
"Hell yeah." His smile like a flash of happiness at the pit of her stomach. Like a child, unadulterated delight. Loves. Him. And he wants to stay here. With her.
He tries to lie down next to her again, which proves hazardous enough, what with her injured face and their nervous jerky movements, trying to get close without getting too close. Hands placed somewhere safe, not up skirts or down in boxers. Sleep. Just sleep. Accidentally elbows him in the face, not hard but enough to have him cussing and swearing.
Finally finding a relative peace lying there next to one another. In a close embrace, a little awkward but affectionate. And tired, so damned tired.
"Shit, it's like falling in love with Mike Tyson," he mutters into her neck as he tucks down the skirt of her dress.
And she' wouldn't have found anything remarkable with that, because he says a lot of things he doesn't mean. Except he'd said 'falling in love', in that grumpy voice.
The one he uses to disguise what's real.
They lie there silently. Her back against his chest yet another time, though this time, there is no need to push against his crotch. No need to test him.
She knows.
And when she turns her head to check on him, his eyes are clinched shut, pretending to be asleep already. She loves that he doesn't complain about her keeping a nightlight on, doesn't complain at all. Just takes it all, exactly as it is.
She has to remind herself. It's not a choice, just a simple fact. She can't stay. He's not for her. She has to go after them, has to find them at any cost. He knows that and she knows that. This little boy, as much hers as he's Claire's. She can't stay here and do nothing. Impossible. Wants to beg him: come, come. Come with me. But she has no right to ask him that. She can't give him anything beyond simple physical pleasure and sporadic affection. Can't be that centre-point, the focus of his life. Can't be what he needs.
She wishes she could. Oh how she wishes.
The room that seems to sway as she closes her eyes, his lips, the coarse friction of his chin against her neck. And she's almost inside a dream when she hears a hoarse:
"You know… it ain't all 'bout the sex right Freckles?"
She must be hallucinating this.
"What?..." Her eyelids sticking together, refusing to open up. She's so tired. She must be way more sloshed than she'd thought. She doesn't understand a single word of what he's saying. No that's not true. She understands the words, just not the sequence in which he strings them together. Not the meaning.
"You and me… it ain't just the sex… I… you know… Just thought, well... you ought to know."
When did he suddenly turn into this? The man who lets his mask fall off. Who strips himself of all his armors, all his protective barriers and throws himself in front of her. It's frightening, because he's so much stronger than her. This. This fearlessness he has, and she doesn't. Squeezes out a dull 'yeah' for lack of a better response.
"Sorry… sorry 'bout your… the kid… The baby I mean…"
"Okay…" she whispers because anything beyond that, she can't bear, can't muster up. She'd carried it alone for so long. Lost it there while waiting for her hearing. Alone, truly alone. The only person in the world who'd thought it was a loss worth crying over.
Hates that he knows, but at the same time. His sorry… Restoring a little dignity to that tiny unwanted life, as if it was something, meant something at all. Because it did to her.
"No it wadn't okay… None of it…" he says and his hand smoothes her forehead, like you'd hold a sick person. What do you know? Sawyer. Sensitive man. Who'd have thought? Clumsy and awkward and not at all used to this. His heavy palm across her brow and she feel strangely protected. Doesn't know when she falls asleep. Lulled by his rhythmical breathing beside her. Her love for him, she tucks it away. Like a little grain of truth, deep inside. Precious.
Maybe, maybe one day, she'll be able to tell him.
Not now. But maybe one day.
He wakes up way too early.
Nothing new with that. But he wakes up in her bed. Even with Jackass in the same house. He's still the one she'd asked for. She'd invited him to stay. Him. Incomprehensible as it is.
Somehow they've moved apart during the night. Probably her leaving him, the way she lies in her usual bent shape, curled up hard, her back towards him.
She's snoring. Just a bit, but enough to make it impossible to fall back to sleep again. No that's a lie. He could sleep in spite of the snoring. It's the fucked-up dress. The dress and her. He tries hard not to look at her there. The way the dress has slid up a bit, like an accordion around her waist. So high up, her butt is almost visible beneath the cream fabric, or at least the lower half moons. The angle, her back arched, knees drawn up just enough to give him a heart-stopping view of what's in between. The darkness, a shadow between her buttocks summoning his hand. Come explore. That part of her. The only part that is really all woman. Shit, shit, shit. Lies there engorged and horny, feeling slightly foolish. She isn't even conscious. It's not like all this delightful sweetness is on display for his benefit. And he might be a sleazebag but he ain't one to take advantage of cataleptic girls inadvertently flashing themselves.
She's asleep, he reminds himself. Totally gone, completely out for counts. Might even be quite drunk still.
Hair in a web across her face, making him want to swipe it away. Her blossoming lips visible underneath, and though he can't imagine she'll have a great morning breath, it takes all he's got to resist the urge to swoop in for a good morning kiss. Maybe more.
Takes a commendable amount of self-control not to allow his fingers to follow that little succulent curve, round it and disappear underneath, in between. Forward. Wants to wake her up like that. Imagines entering her from behind, leaving his hands free to slide around her front, trawl down from her bellybutton to her center. She'd be hot and moist and heartbreakingly immodest. In his dream. Might even moan load enough to bother Jack. Ha. Best dream ever.
But that's just what it is.
Just a dream. The reality, shit, what with her fight…the spontaneous attack on Dewi. Crazy, crazy girl. Something flashing by when he thinks of it. Something he might have seen last night, might have imagined. Not sure. Something he's got to take care of. Now. It won't do to lie here and indulge in impossible sexual fantasies. Needs to talk to someone. Gets up. Throws the single sheet over her lower body to stop his mind from playing tricks on him. Stop the longing.
He sneaks Kate's phone out of her purse, brings it out on the porch. Henry agrees to meet for breakfast at a nearby café'. He buys a pair of cheap rubber sandals at one of the little stands off the beach path. Must get some proper shoes somewhere, and damn soon. Feels like a goddamn penguin sliding around in those stupid plastic boats.
They order coffee, he can't stomach anything else. Faint feeling of nausea. Shouldn't have drunk that much, shouldn't have let her either. He could have had her last night. He'd fumbled it all up or perhaps she had. Wasn't really the right setting for a passionate night of carnal pleasures. Not with her face like an abstract painting, probably hurting like a bitch even though she'd never let it on.
But he feels the time slipping away. The chance, to make her fall in love with him, slipping away by the second. That's how pathetic he is. Sex. What he uses to make her fall for him. The only thing he really has to offer, what he knows.
Hell, he'd go down on her all day long if he thought that'd convince her to stay. But even that ain't working at all. Instead of her falling for him, he's the one who's turned into a complete sentimental sap. Case in evidence: the sex, the other morning. Her in his arms. It had done nothing to still the hunger for her, had just etched the need even deeper. He's such a fucking cliché. Can't loose her now.
She won't stay. He has to make her stay. Has to.
Shakes the thoughts loose. Henry watching him expectantly above the rim of his coffee cup. Looking greasy and sleazy as usual. But nothing wrong with those sharp peering eyes. The intelligence palpable across the little table. No time to waste. Henry with a little impatient dangle of the foot.
"So what's up boss?"
"You ain't calling me that," he snarls, immediately thinking of Miles and missing him with an intensity that makes him choke. It's not that he's got many friends. Hardly any at all in fact, except a few lady acquaintances he hooks up with every now and then for fun and a couple of random business associates. And the people from the island. That's it. Not a big fucking pool to pick and choose from.
"Sorry, I guess, since Miles calls you that and…"
"Yeah well, you won't. So,… I might have spotted someone last night…"
"What? Who? Where?" Henry stammers, and he's so incredibly uncool it makes Sawyer relax.
"Hey watch it with the twenty questions per second, my head is about to explode. Down in Seminyak near the beach last night. We ran into Dewi and, well ain't sure but I think I saw Danan in the crowd there too."
"Oh. Okay. So what do you want from me?"
"Well this island ain't that big. Want you to track him down pal, what else?"
"And then what? What do you want with him?"
Sips his coffee while watching Hurley walk slowly towards them. Thinking distractedly that the big guy must've really lost some considerable weight. He's looking positively radiant. Or maybe he just doesn't stay up boozing all night.
"Oh hell, I just miss the sly sonofabitch," he mumbles into his cup. Not sure himself. Kill him. Kill him. His pulse like a freight train. Make him pay.
Henry gets up the moment Hurley pulls out a chair to join them.
"Gotta' go gentlemen, will be in contact if I learn something new and useful," he says and breezes off in a flutter of wrinkled, un-ironed clothes.
"What's his problem?" Hurley looks a bit hurt by the swift departure.
"No idea. So how's the plotting an' planning for the great expedition?"
"Yeah well, you know, we're just kicking off…." Hurley pretends to read the menu. "So you sure you're not coming, could need you… you know… "
"Yep, I'm sure."
Hurley orders from a surprisingly surly teenager. The trainee tag hanging in a slapdash fashion off his batik shirt. Thick black hair sprouting above the typical Balinese headdress.
"Dude, I don't think there is a chance Kate will let us leave without her. "
"You gonna' make her," he says as if Hurley owes him shit.
"But you know,… with Claire and Aaron and everything. I don't think she will let that go… not without a fight. She lives for that kid Sawyer."
"Yeah I fucking know that," he says sharply. "She ain't going Hurley."
Hurley shrugs and folds and unfolds his damn napkin. It annoys Sawyer that he doesn't look him in the eyes.
"Dude…they have a history… Don't you think you ought to bow out? You could stay at the Emporium with us… let them figure things out. Give them some space, a chance to…" docile and sweet, twisting the napkin around now. Still not looking at him.
Hep. So that's how it is. It's stand-up-for-Jackass-day.
"A chance to what buddy? To fuck each other up even more?" No, he thinks, no way. That asshole had his chance with her. Had three fucking years of chances and he'd screwed it up. Jack had blown it. She's fair game now.
And he's waited so long for her. Had waited and hoped and searched that damned island with a loupe every fucking day for three fucking years. Those stupid grids, tirelessly nagged Miles and Jin into fine-combing every nook and cranny of that hellhole.
"Dude you were with Juliet, she was with him all that time… I know you guys had something going way back then but come on… that's a really long time ago. What's in it for you now? Some kind of revenge thing?"
Juliet. Well, he'd never had the heart to tell her that he had still been hoping. Though she must have known about the searches. Must have understood that he wasn't only hoping for some kind of rescue mission from Locke. Knowing her, smart girl as she is, she must have known all too well. His obsession.
How they'd fallen apart as soon as Kate had set foot on the island.
"Revenge? I don't know what the hell you've been smoking Hurley… Ain't any of your business anyhows?" he grumbles. "And what's fucking in it for me! I'm the fucking idiot who's in love with her alright?"
Instantly regretting his lack of self-control. Pretends to ogle some tourist girls having breakfast at another table dressed in bikini tops and colorful sarongs. Not biggie. Sitting here spewing his feelings out all over the breakfast table. And to Hurley nonetheless. Great fucking start of the day.
Hurley doesn't answer. Not much to say to that. Looks up to see the sullen teen-waiter serve him his toast and coffee. Flies immediately drawn to the sweetness of orange marmalade.
"Look, I'm gonna' need someone to look after the property while I'm gone, see over the business and make sure everything rolls on. I mean, if you're not coming anyway? Mom will come too and pitch in but, yeah it'd be great if you would…"
"Sure buddy. Sure I can boss around your cute little secretary and look after your pool bar. Sure."
Hurley's smile tells him, he's not worried about that at all. he folds his hands over his stomach and leans back in his chair. Flicking those weird Jesus-curls back.
"Excellent. I knew I could rely on you dude! Besides my mom will keep you on the straight and narrow. She's good at that."
Relieved to be out of the swampy terrain he, Kate and Jackass inhabit. He can smile again, a real smile.
"I bet she is, buddy-boy. Not scared I'll corrupt her for you? Always had a certain weakness for Latinas."
"No dude, not really worried at all. Knowing my Mama, she'll have turned you into a good little Catholic boy in no time."
Wants to kiss Hugo for this. The benefactor and protector of them all, circus freaks and misfits alike.
None of them deserving of his friendship.
Empty. Not his skin against her back. The first thing she is aware of as she wakes up. The sun is hot through the window, a large expanse covering the bed. He's not there and as much as she doesn't want to think of it, the disappointment is ridiculous.
It ought not to feel like this. She has woken up many mornings without him. She should be used to it.
But he didn't stay.
Humiliating to wake up like this and she has a newfound compassion for him. This is what she'd done to him. There is a heavy pressure across her forehead, a headache not quite there yet but gaining on her by the second. She hoists herself out of bed and wants to cry for the pain across her nose and sinuses.
A little woozy still. Just on the verge of slamming into one hell of a hang-over. Embarrassed by the fact that she didn't even make it out of her torn and bloodied dress last night. She pulls it over her head and tosses it on the floor. She won't ever be able to use it again. Doesn't matter, wasn't really her style anyway. Takes the first thing she can find. A meek willow green dress, small swirly patterns in a slightly darker green. One of those cheap cotton shifts that she favors nowadays, thin straps. Steps into a pair of clean underwear. What the hell had she been thinking? Scrapes her hair back, fastening it with a normal rubber band.
That's when her naked foot touches something on the floor. His t-shirt. Soft and washed-out bluish grey cotton. And it's like finding a piece of him there. She picks it up and can't resist bringing it up to her face. Closing her eyes, she buries her nose in it. Draws in his smell. Spicy, warm and his.
How a fragrance can fill you up completely.
God. How she wishes it could have been simpler, easier between them. How she wishes she'd made different choices all along the way. Jack. How she'd bent over backwards to be good enough for him. Never really getting there. She'd been so blind, so stupid. Hadn't realized Sawyer's worth until it was far too late. Juliet had. And this, Kate realizes, is what makes her envy the woman more than anything. She must have had a brain on her and all her preconceptions on hold. She had spotted it in him, embraced it and she had managed to make that connection with him.
He.
This man. Behind the self-loading and the sharp barbs keeping people at bay; something valuable, something rare. A gem hidden in grime and dirt. How can she leave him behind now? How can she ask him to come?
She has no right to him. None what so ever.
He passes an ambulating vendor, an old fellow carrying some kind of sweet cakes in two enormous baskets hooked on a pole across his shoulders.
On an impulse he stops the old man and sticks a 10.000,- Rupiah bill in his hand. He gets a little brown paper-wrap filled with goodies for that. It smells vanilla and syrup and makes him think of her for some reason. Something gripping him, and it's freaky and scary. Something tame and domestic. Wants to make her some thick black coffee. Wants to sit with her on the porch, close, close in the sultry heat out there, dipping sweet-cakes in their mugs. Doesn't know what the hell is up with him. The freakin' daydreaming taking over completely. Can already see how the syrup will dribble down her chin, how he'll kiss it away. The salty taste of her mixing with the sweetness.
Can almost smell the happiness, right behind the corner. Him and her. He ends up almost running home, jogging down the beach path, making people swerve off onto the sand around it. Can't stop.
He rushes through the house. Feels silly and breathless and inexplicably in a hurry to see her. Imagining how he'll find her there. Will hitch her up, like in some soppy old movie. He'll twirl her around and she'll drape her legs around him for support. Will kiss him, full on, swollen kissable lips and sweet tongue against his. He'll stumble into the bedroom with her in his arms and a heart so full of her there is no space for fear.
No place for doubts.
The coffee could wait, the cakes too. Or maybe they'll have them later, after they make love, slow and excruciatingly tender love, maybe they'll eat in bed. Together. Crumbs and powdery sugar sticking on naked slick skin.
Shit. He's an idiot. It's all flowers and twitter of little sparrows. How the hell an old cynic like him can turn into this, how he could have fallen so hard, it's beyond comprehension.
Hoped you enjoyed it. Reviews, good and bad are loved and cherished.