"What were you doing for
those eight and a half minutes?
Was it mean, was it
petty--or did you realize you were sorry, and that you loved
them?"
The Dismemberment Plan
Later, Heather realizes that Sawyer was more or less telling the truth—there is enough room for them to sleep in the tent without too much trouble. There is a level of discomfort, in that both of them are trying not to seem uncomfortable at the closeness between them, the implications. She knows that he is only pretending to sleep, though he feigns it well enough—he wants desperately to appear casual even in an awkward situation. Heather can see why he might want to keep the unruffled attitude, but she doesn't feel it as necessary as he does. Sawyer is lying on his side, faced away from her, and she on her back, one arm slung over her eyes, the other lying on the ground above her head.
They are not touching, but she can feel Sawyer breathing. In her mind she can see his back, strong and broad, rising and falling smoothly: pictures a scene where she slides close to him, slinks an arm around his midsection, kisses him in the rough spot below his temple—knows that his reaction would not be surprise, and that it would not be coarse. The pig-headedness would be replaced by a sly amusement at first, which would give way to something deeper, closer to what he might be when he's not pretending to be what he is… at least until the daylight hours.
And Heather very much wants to know who Sawyer really is, because no one on this island is who they say they are, and she knows that—Jack seems to be the only one who is trying to play the game fairly, and that's why he's the leader: they all respect him for what they can't do themselves. Hell, she respects it. But Jack isn't the one that's really on her mind… instead she can't stop thinking of Sawyer's back, his legs, his perfectly untrustworthy smile.
Somehow, this makes it easier for her to decide that she will not go to him. His blue eyes, his cigarettes, his goddamn southern drawl: he's counting on them, probably always has, and she won't let them get to her. Besides—that's not part of this, right? Falling for him, especially for the bad-boy exterior, is giving him the advantage.
Heather rolls over, away from him—she can notice the barely-there hitch in his breathing, hearing her move. It begins to rain, a light rain thankfully, not enough to destroy their tent; only a short while after Sawyer falls asleep. Rain helps him sleep easy, She thinks: for her, this is something better than cowboy boots or tough talk.
It's something real.
And it takes significantly longer, but sleep does find her.
- - -
It is early in the morning when Heather wakes; dim, phantom light filters through the tarp of the tent, making the objects heavy in shadows, alien. The first thing she thinks is that she is immensely comfortable, and decently warm (unlike the usual chill of being out on that lawn chair, with salt residue clinging to her clothes and hair). She wakes slowly, which is not something she has often had the luxury of.
Gradually then, she begins to realize that Sawyer is directly behind her, and she is cradled into him, with one of his arms draped across her stomach. Coming to this realization, she can't bring herself to jump up with any sort of indignity, and decides that it is not wrong of her to enjoy the relief of a single cozy moment in an environment that doesn't allow for much of it.
His breath on the back of her neck makes her stomach flutter, then tighten. She doesn't move much, turns her face towards him, her upper-body shifting, but it wakes him (or draws him out of the same half-sleep that she had been in). There is a brief second before he constructs his attitude, and in that moment, Heather sees contentedness, the same sense of relief. Then he plasters on his usual personality, and smiles winningly, lifting himself up slightly.
"Well good morning," He starts, leaning in closer.
"Sawyer, what are you doing?" Her tone is unimpressed, like a parent tired of a child's antics.
"What am I doing?" His smile widens, eyebrows raised in mock innocence. Heather fights to keep the smile from her lips, but isn't completely successful—however, she does arch an incredulous eyebrow. "Listen honey, you came to me." His voice is somewhat rough in the morning, not yet with its outgoing smoothness.
"You're lying." She answers, same bored tone. However, she doesn't make any move away, can feel the tension between them, those strange blue eyes focused intent on hers.
"How's that?"
"Because I'm still on my side of the tent," Heather responds, not forgoing a short grin, which flashes triumphant in her eyes—Sawyer likes that expression, something he wants to relate to badly. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek and looks down for a moment in a gesture saying, 'you got me'.
"But you haven't moved away," He says, his body tensing slightly.
"But I haven't moved away," Heather agrees (voice hardly above a whisper).
Against better judgment, against what she told herself the night before, she lifts herself to him, kisses his neck—his facial hair is not a painful stubble, but scruffy and (as she's sure he's well aware of) attractive. When she kisses him again, higher and closer to his chin, he tilts his head and accepts it—this time she tastes him, and he lets out a groan that sends chills down her spine. Sawyer runs his hand behind her head, through her hair, and pulls her mouth to his. After a quick peak, she notes that he kisses with his eyes closed; as with the rain, she likes this about him.
Things progress, and he pulls her into his lap. His hands drift to her lower back, holding her tight, and hers are fists wound into his hair. Their mouths meet constantly, kissing like swimmers dragging for air.
"Sawyer? Hey Sawyer?" A man calls outside the tent, and Heather stops, watches his face. Sawyer says nothing, shakes his head, goes to kiss her again, when a man she is not familiar with barges into the tent, practically tripping over Sawyer's ankles. He takes one look at them and nearly stands straight up in surprise—knocking things over in his wake. Heather takes a look at Sawyer's face, and quickly holds his arms.
"Uhm, you might want to try getting the fuck out." When the man doesn't move, she shouts, "Now!" And then he does leave, starts running. Heather moves off and away from Sawyer, but doesn't release him.
"Let me go."
"I don't care what you say to him, just don't hurt him." She pleads, tired and frustrated.
"Well what the fuck did he have to-"
"I don't know, it's just easier to let it go. Let it go." He looks at her with his jaw set tight, and then sighs long and low.
"Thank you." It's not sound, but almost angry in itself.
"What? For what?" Heather narrows her eyes—Sawyer is less predictable than a few of the island's members, but this has come completely out of the blue.
"For not saying, 'This is stupid' or 'We shouldn't do this'." He sucks on the inside of his cheek, looks away. This is important, she thinks, and watches him, her grip loosening and sliding to his wrist.
"It was, and we probably shouldn't have, if that's any consolation," Heather says with a bit of humor, trying to lighten the sudden darkness that has settled around Sawyer. She's seen it around him before (and it's around all the others too, but she spends more time with him than them) and she doesn't like it. Something's haunting him.
"Thanks for not saying it, though. I'm so sick of hearing women apologize for what they're about to do, so they can save some of that guilt later." He gives her a glaring look, brow furrowed deep with an anger that she is frightened by. Not for me, she thinks, but that isn't very reassuring. It's a self-destructive hatred, and it oozes from him like a terrible sickness. Her face shows its concern—she doesn't try to hide it.
"Last I checked, men save their guilt too." She's gentle with it, but it's obvious what she's getting at—something he's not telling her, or at the very least, not owning up to himself. It isn't met to undercut him, but if there's a social grace she lacks, it's approaching sensitive subjects (there are always certain things that even sarcastic humor can't even diffuse).
"You don't know me," He responds, voice deep and cold. Fortunately, depth has never frightened her, and she knows anger like the back of her hand. Instead of being shocked or hurt, her jaw clamps shut—her words are terse, irritated as she rises.
"You're right. I don't." Heather turns and leaves without further word on the subject, leaving Sawyer to sit in his tent, all alone with his hair hanging in his face.