Auld Lang Syne
Chapter Two
The next night, Sayid had to cover for Sawyer's night patrol shift. Had he known what greater joys awaited him, he might not have made the promise; but at the time he had traded for the amaretto, he had not known he would be living with Claire. So the following day, he was particularly anxious to get home. A last minute, emergency repair on Rose and Bernard's hut had kept him out late, and by the time he ducked inside out of the rain, Aaron had been long asleep.
Claire was sitting cross-legged on their blanket, and she was bent over a pad of paper on which she appeared to be making careful notations. Sayid sat beside her, and, as he dried his dark, luxurious hair with a towel, he glanced down at the pad. She had created a crude calendar. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Figuring out which days we can have sex," she said as she wrote a capital "F" inside one of the blocks.
A third of him wanted to laugh. A third of him was struggling not to feel offended. And a third of him was simply confused. "Do you not care for spontaneity? Even I am not so meticulous as to set a schedule for everything."
Her smile was bright in the light of the oil lamp. Seeing it softened the negative feelings and bolstered the positive, so that he did actually laugh. "I do not understand," he admitted.
"We don't have anything anymore, you know. I mean, we haven't for months."
He tossed the towel aside. "We…excuse me?" She couldn't be implying that the spark was gone from their relationship. Indeed, it had just started to flame. And they had only been together for a little over a month. So what precisely was she talking about?
Her teeth bit into her lip a little as she giggled. He loved that shade of girlishness in her personality; she could be brave and assertive when situations demanded it—especially when Aaron's well being was at stake—but then the next moment she could seem so charmingly innocent. She inspired in him such a wide range of emotions that he never quite knew what feeling would sweep over him next: whether tenderness, or passion, or love, or affection, or desire.
"Sayid, I'm trying not to get pregnant. The rhythm method is all we have. I'm figuring out my fertile days so we can avoid…you know."
"Oh." He supposed he should have deduced her meaning sooner. He had been a science major, after all, but biology had not been his subject of interest. It involved far too long a catalogue of terms, far too many definitions, and far too little reasoning. There was not much to be calculated and too much to be memorized. Genetics had been intriguing enough; it contained a hint of algebra, and he had enjoyed applying the math. But biology wasn't like chemistry: there was an exciting yet practical science he could gladly throw his mind into.
He now leaned slowly to his left and glanced down at the calendar. He was looking in the box for today and hoping, earnestly, that it did not contain the letter F. The box was empty except for the number 28. He raised his eyes to hers and smiled.
She arched a single eyebrow and said, "Yes, Sayid?"
"Nothing. I was merely making an observation."
"And what did you observe?" she asked, lowering her pen and placing it and the calendar on the ground to the side of the blanket. She turned to him and rested a hand on his thigh.
"Your fingers," he said, covering them with his hand. "I was just noticing that they are uncommonly delicate, considering how much labor we do here."
"My fingers?" She sighed dramatically. "Then I suppose you wouldn't be interested in making love?"
He suppressed a laugh between tight lips, but it rose to his eyes. "I could possibly be persuaded."
As it turned out, he did not require much persuasion. Later, they fell into what were already becoming their habitual positions. She molded comfortably to his form, her arm draped over his waist, one of her legs between his, and her cheek on his chest. As they lay together, Sayid began to think that he was in no mood to have a mere girlfriend, not here, not now, not in a place where the only guarantee was that time was short. This sharing of Claire's hut was, for him, no trial run.
Even though Claire had made it clear she had given him her whole heart, he was not entirely sure what she would say if, tonight, he asked her to be his wife. He suspected the answer would be yes, but he would not dare to make another assumption. As an interrogator, Sayid had learned to sound people out before asking the most pertinent questions. As a soldier, he had learned not to act on whim, but to always weigh the risk against the reward, to balance the cost with the benefit. He had forgotten that lesson once, the first time he had attempted to ambush the Others, but, on the whole, Sayid was not a gambling man. He did not like the idea of asking a significant question to which he did not already know the answer.
He gracefully trailed a single finger down the length of her spine and back up. She murmured her encouragement, and he began to rub her back. When he stopped, she squirmed against him to urge him to continue, but instead he asked a question. "What do you expect from our relationship?"
She pulled away partly to look at him curiously. "Umm…well, I expect you to be faithful and treat me well. And I'll do the same."
"Of course." It wasn't quite the information he was hoping she would furnish. He supposed he would have to admit an element of chance after all.
"Good night," she said and kissed his lips softly. She turned away on her side, and he spooned himself against her before drifting off to sleep.