Bookends
Title: Bookends
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: Try as he might, there are some faces Sayid will never forget. This is one of them.
Spoilers: Vaguely, current season 4. Nothing unaired.
Notes: For elliotsmelliot, who requested a Lost fic using my favorite Simon and Garfunkel lyric. (Well, this is one of my favorite lyrics of theirs, anyway...)
category: best future fic
Can you imagine us, years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy
Try as he might, there are some faces Sayid will never forget. This is one of them.
He rolls The Daily Telegraph loosely in his hand and approaches, sitting on the bench, a respectful space between himself and the other man. Time may have grayed his beard, made his once-dark hair silver, created wrinkles where there was once smooth skin, but he knows there are some faces this man will not forget, either.
Only a few minutes pass before the other man looks up. Sayid faces him, waits for the flicker of recognition in his eyes. And it's only a few seconds more before it's there, preceded by shocked disbelief.
“Sayid? Is that you, brother?”
Sayid smiles, briefly. “Hello, Desmond.”
-----
They've never been men accustomed to small talk, and maybe the years have erased any comfort they might have felt in each other's presence. Still, polite niceties are exchanged. How have you been? seems a laughable question in light of a shared history and the passage of decades, but they're both carefully avoiding talk of people they both knew, an island and a helicopter, a freighter and a plane, mistakes made and regrets still fresh.
A silence inevitably falls, slightly more comfortable than the conversation, and Sayid waits several minutes before unrolling the newspaper, smoothing its creases then passing it silently to his companion.
Desmond reads today's date before the headline, because though they've made no mention of it aloud, it's in both their minds (it has to be). September 22, 2037. Desmond raises his eyes to Sayid's, a silent acknowledgment, before scanning further down the page: Widmore Corp. owner dead at 98 the headline reads, far less explosive a narrative than the man's life had been.
Sayid sees no surprise in the other man's eyes (of course; he would have known first, maybe even before the papers). And yet, he feels the need to give a quiet commentary, two words. “It's over.”
And he's taken aback to see Desmond smile, almost amused. The Scotsman hands the paper back, then reaches into the inner pocket of his coat. Draws out a wallet, and from it a photograph. He traces the edges of the image before passing it to Sayid. The woman in the photo reminds Sayid of someone he's seen before, years ago, in another photograph.
“This is my daughter, and my granddaughter. I'm to meet them across the street for dinner soon.” He pauses, another smile. “It's been over long before today, brother. Long before today.”
Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: Try as he might, there are some faces Sayid will never forget. This is one of them.
Spoilers: Vaguely, current season 4. Nothing unaired.
Notes: For elliotsmelliot, who requested a Lost fic using my favorite Simon and Garfunkel lyric. (Well, this is one of my favorite lyrics of theirs, anyway...)
category: best future fic
Can you imagine us, years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy
Try as he might, there are some faces Sayid will never forget. This is one of them.
He rolls The Daily Telegraph loosely in his hand and approaches, sitting on the bench, a respectful space between himself and the other man. Time may have grayed his beard, made his once-dark hair silver, created wrinkles where there was once smooth skin, but he knows there are some faces this man will not forget, either.
Only a few minutes pass before the other man looks up. Sayid faces him, waits for the flicker of recognition in his eyes. And it's only a few seconds more before it's there, preceded by shocked disbelief.
“Sayid? Is that you, brother?”
Sayid smiles, briefly. “Hello, Desmond.”
-----
They've never been men accustomed to small talk, and maybe the years have erased any comfort they might have felt in each other's presence. Still, polite niceties are exchanged. How have you been? seems a laughable question in light of a shared history and the passage of decades, but they're both carefully avoiding talk of people they both knew, an island and a helicopter, a freighter and a plane, mistakes made and regrets still fresh.
A silence inevitably falls, slightly more comfortable than the conversation, and Sayid waits several minutes before unrolling the newspaper, smoothing its creases then passing it silently to his companion.
Desmond reads today's date before the headline, because though they've made no mention of it aloud, it's in both their minds (it has to be). September 22, 2037. Desmond raises his eyes to Sayid's, a silent acknowledgment, before scanning further down the page: Widmore Corp. owner dead at 98 the headline reads, far less explosive a narrative than the man's life had been.
Sayid sees no surprise in the other man's eyes (of course; he would have known first, maybe even before the papers). And yet, he feels the need to give a quiet commentary, two words. “It's over.”
And he's taken aback to see Desmond smile, almost amused. The Scotsman hands the paper back, then reaches into the inner pocket of his coat. Draws out a wallet, and from it a photograph. He traces the edges of the image before passing it to Sayid. The woman in the photo reminds Sayid of someone he's seen before, years ago, in another photograph.
“This is my daughter, and my granddaughter. I'm to meet them across the street for dinner soon.” He pauses, another smile. “It's been over long before today, brother. Long before today.”
Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears