Sayid's Back
Immediately before "Exodus I"
Claire
It didn't make sense.
She wasn't interested in him. Not as a man. He was just too old for her. She was too young for him, and she had a child now, and there was no time to watch him walk like a solider, back straight, chin high, down the beach or up the beach, or at the fire with arms muscled like some …. really well muscled man, tossing logs to keep the fire going and attract someone's attention. With the fire. Not her attention with his body. Not make her body burn with fire for his body. Not that. Not that at all.
She wouldn't even look at him if they weren't on the island. Probably. Not much. Not obviously, any way.
It was hormones. Post pregnancy hormones. She was just tired. Really tired. She was up four times with the baby since dusk last night. It was a good thing that she didn't wear a watch so she didn't know how much sleep she was losing because then she'd really be tired.
All new mothers were tired, everyone said so. The baby wouldn't sleep. He cried a lot. Nursing wasn't the sweet, peaceful experience with a rosy sheen on her skin and a serene Madonna smile on her mouth as she stroked the baby's sweet baby head, not like the magazine pictures colored it to be. She got a lot of advice from the mothers or the aunts or their mothers' aunts on how to make him stop crying how to make him sleep how to make him eat how he should be at this age… What age? He was just born.
Sayid didn't offer advice.
He just smiled.
Even with her being large and lumpy and leaky, and sore bits that tight-bottled Jack wouldn't give her pills for so she walked funny, and her skin all splotchy, and her chest the size of her belly, and her moods making her act like a fruit loop.
He smiled.
When she was frowning like a frog as she patted Aaron's bum so he would be quiet just for a moment please sweetie please, or red with frustration as she changed another sopping nappie and why weren't there ever enough nappies, or frazzled into a witchy haired Virgo because washing nappies on this island was the hottest job she never dreamed of doing, he would walk by and smile.
She really didn't keep the flap of the shelter up just for that smile. Not really. It was cooler. Even when the baby was napping, it was cooler and the sound of the waves should make him sleep better, so the flap stayed up. For the temperature.
Sayid's smile felt cool, smooth, not frustrated; not blond and chirpy with aggravating goodwill and Saint Bernard puppy helpfulness that got in the way when she was trying to hang the dratted nappies and demanded, yes Charlie, demanded attention at the wrongest of times, and she'd bet he'd never let her cry herself ugly before pulling her into his arms, mind Aaron there, and making it all feel better because he was grown up and all together and all doing. And pretty. No, he wasn't pretty. He was beautiful.
But since he was too old and she wasn't watching him, it didn't matter. Besides, he was Shannon's.
So why was she standing here after her morning trek back from the privy without a seat, being quiet, behind a tree, so early in the morning that they were the only ones up, watching him feed the fire? Oh yeah, they were the only ones up.
And he had his shirt off.
She suspected all along that Sayid would look good without a shirt. Again, not consciously watching the guy. Man. Old man. But the singlet he wore left little to the imagination. So it wasn't like she dwelled on it but when glancing at those arms – she really had to come up with a word better than muscley, but if she came up with a word better than muscley didn't that mean she was actually watching him? – that lead right to that chest which had the nicest bit of hair curling at the neckline of that singlet, she wouldn't be a girl if she didn't wonder how the rest the package would be.
And now she knew.
Breath taking.
It truly knocked the breath right out of her.
But what she didn't expect and no way could prepare for was his back, because who looked at backs unless it was the bum? Now she knew: she would, if it was Sayid's. In the hypothetical, of course. In reality, his back made her turn around and lean against the tree that she was hiding behind, and fan her face.
His back was satin. Absolutely satin. So smooth that her fingers ached to stroke, she meant touch, no, no she didn't, never mind she had to lower the hand that was reaching without her being aware of moving.
She turned to face the fire, resting her shoulder against the tree. She could gasp later.
He was lifting a log – a nice, big, heavy log - that caused that satin to ripple. She never got the word before, ripple, always pictured ice cream, but never again. His shoulder blades sculpted with his effort, capped by rounded shoulder muscles. The chords in his back were stretched, pronounced, and moving that satin – that peanut butter colored satin – so that the curve of his spine was outlined and made the length of his back a track for her tongue to slide, slowly, softly, to the dip of his lower back to end in a kiss. The same lower back, flattened by his waist looked the best place to clasp her hands to pull him closer when lying under him……
The baby began to cry.
Claire thought about joining him.
Sayid looked to her shelter. He reached for his shirt from the sand, and pulled it on.
She wanted to cry harder. Instead she took some deep breaths, thought of England which lead to Charlie who wasn't peanut butter at all, not really. Calm, cool, yes cool, she was cool, she stepped from the jungle, aware his eyes were probably on her back as she stepped into the tent.
