Disclaimer: Don't own him. Wish I did... but that's another story entirely.
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She must think I'm stupid.
That I didn't notice the easy fit of that gun in her hand. The way she cradled its weight, her finger curled around the trigger like the weapon was made for her. The way she popped the clip before Mohammed could even get the words out, and emptied the chamber like she'd done it in her sleep. Fluid. Effortless.
That I was oblivious to the tension in her stance, the hunger in her voice, when she grilled me about the Marshal. The way her voice shook, broke the bravado, demanding me to reveal what I knew… The way her gaze challenged me afterward, almost daring me to try something.
That I can't see the shadows in her eyes.
Yeah, she must really think I'm thick.
That I haven't picked up on her desperation with the Doc. The way she looks at him like he's her redemption, her salvation, like he could be her personal hero.
The way she looks at me like I'm her demon. Her paved road to damnation.
Hell… if I didn't think she'd enjoy the trip, I wouldn't waste my time.
And I'm tempted to tell her that I'm not as dumb as I look. That just because I talk slow, doesn't mean I am. That I may speak with an accent, but I don't think with one.
That she's not as big a mystery as she hopes she is.
She's got quite a bit riding on hope, that one. And it goes beyond believing the pipe dreams that Sayid's been feeding her, or latching on to the sweet words and shy smiles Doc Holiday's been throwing her way.
Every time she tosses me a sideways glance, or peeks at me from the corner of her eye, she's hoping that I'm dumb as the day is long.
Because any man with half a brain would have picked up on the heat. Would have felt her tongue slip past his teeth, and the rush of warm air from her nostrils, and the way she balled her hands into fists to keep them from wandering elsewhere.
Sorry, Sweetheart… I'm just not that dense.
And I can't decide what bothers me more. That she thinks I am… or that she almost had me.
That damn letter.
She sat there and rambled off all the sins I'd committed since we landed on this sandbox, leaning close to me, searching for something… Shred of decency, link to humanity, who knows?
Then she dropped her little bomb. Ticked off the facts, fingering the evidence in her hand, like she was half-proud of her Nancy Drew efforts. And maybe it was the corner I'd been backed into, or the throbbing hole in my arm… or hell, maybe it was the picturesque fucking setting. But I told her the truth.
That wasn't where I almost lost it.
I couldn't care less what she thinks of me. Done is done. Couldn't change my past if I wanted to.
But right then, in the split second before her sad curiosity turned into pity, when the dark layer lifted from her eyes and the spark of understanding lit, brief and bright…
I almost told her my name.