lost ff: sing your melody i'll sing along (sawyer/juliet)
title: sing your melody i'll sing along
word count: 1622
summary: a dinner
notes: title from falling slowly. this stuff is more fun to write than my philosophy of teaching and assessment paper. comments would be most appreciated.
He heard her before he saw her, the eager and quick steps across the floor. She swung the door open with an almost bravado and revealed herself, worn gray sweatpants that hugged her hips in the most perfect manner and a kelly green tee that seemed brighter when blended with her hair, straight as a pin and falling lightly across her shoulders.
It had been quite a day for him, one for the books. He had to wonder sometimes, running around this damn island from place to place, his walkie popping off different voices, an unending stream of problems and crisis, who had a more demanding job - him or the guys who ran alongside the president’s limo. Because, honestly, making sure a bunch of hippies don’t piss off the territorial natives probably shouldn’t feel like the world’s most demanding and dangerous job. Frankly, everyone just needed to relax a bit; these guys were all pretty high strung for having lived through the summer of love.
Relax, yes, himself included. Which is why he was there, being ushered into her house. “You really don’t have to knock,” she told him, clicking the door shut. “I was expecting you.”
“Yeah, still, don’t think it’s right just barging in on you.”
She made her way back to the kitchen. “Well, whatever you’re comfortable with,” she teased, shooting him a sly smile as she passed.
She went back to work, chopping up the last bit of vegetables for the salad. He’d offer to help, but she always shoots him down, having done nearly all the work before he gets there. That night was no exception, the table was already set, glasses already full, hell, some of the pots and pans were already soaking in the sink.
She chopped in a rhythm, a gentle metronome, and he could hear her humming. It would be inaudible to most people, but they had been at this long enough for him to learn the idiosyncratic fact that she hummed a lot in the kitchen, an involuntary reflex according to her, as if she’s keeping time with Sinatra or The Rolling Stones (or once, most embarrassingly, with The Bangles. High School, she had laughed). He listened for it now, trying to decipher the tune over the sound of the knife on the cutting board. That night he failed, unable to hear more than a few notes.
Perhaps she was on to his game. He wouldn’t put it past her to mess with him a bit, he surely did with her.
Whatever she had made that night smelled mouth-wateringly good. She was, in fact, quite an excellent cook, a fact he wouldn’t have guessed a few months ago. Creative too, she was always finding little ways to make bland things better. She experimented, she called it, said it was a challenge, one that was less stressful and more delicious, and he was more than happy to be her guinea pig.
He had no sense for those things though, he just knew what he liked and what he didn’t, just ate what was put in front of him. “Taste this,” she would say sometimes, sticking a spoon in front of his mouth, and he would oblige. “It’s good” he would tell her, and she’d tilt her head to the side, expression blank, almost annoyed at his consistently unhelpful comments. She’d always transform it from good to great, however, with or without his help (with one glaring exception, the time she took a whack at enchiladas and they ended up just eating tortilla chips out of the bag).
There was a lot about Juliet he had learned the last few months that he wouldn’t have ever guessed based on his previous limited knowledge that she was good with microscopes and guns. He had never seen her in a kitchen, under a car, at the other end of a poker table. Never imagined her in any of those scenarios. It is a nice surprise, each new revelation (even if she did wallop him at poker; her and her stoic expressions).
She threw the last of the carrots into the bowl and picked it up, handing it to him. “Tell me something good about your day,” she said, not looking up from the sink where she washed her hands.
This was what she did, asked him the good about his day, forced him to find something pleasant to relate before he invariably began complaining about the morons and martinets that comprised his coworkers. It was almost a soccer mom routine, something gleaned from the as yet-unknown Oprah or a People magazine. But sometimes he surprised himself. She was good at bringing that out in him.
“Well, let’s see,” he feigned concentration, a sort of tease. She eyed him as she made her way out to the table. “Jerry is leaving.”
Her head shot up. “He is?” Her eyes were wide, her expression fighting to find a middle ground between concern and unadulterated joy.
He did not like Jerry. She, in turn, did not like Jerry.
“Yeah, he’s just about had it with these beatnicks, he’s taking the sub back in a few weeks.”
Her mouth was open. They stood by the table, not moving to take a seat. “You’re kidding?” He shook his head no, and let himself smile slightly. She mimicked him. “He’s leaving!” He nodded in affirmation. She broke into a grin, clasping her hands in front of her, joyous for a moment before going back into a pseudo-serious expression. “Well, good for Jerry.”
“Screw Jerry! Good for us!”
She laughed. “Yes, that too.” They stared at each other for a moment, before she sighed and walked back into the kitchen to collect the last bit of food. “So are they bringing someone in for his job?” She asked, voice raised slightly as she talked over her shoulder.
He followed her into the kitchen after a moment, taking the bowl from her hand. “Nope, they’re promoting from within.”
She raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “Are you gonna apply?”
“No reason to, they’ve already got their guy.” He spun on his heels, walking out of the kitchen. Juliet paused a moment, a sudden pang of worry shooting through her.
“Oh, no,” she sighed, quickly making her way to stand in front of him. “It’s not - oh, God - tell me it isn’t-”
“No worries, Blondie,” he patted her arm, shaking his head. “It a’int him.”
She was clearly relieved, letting her shoulders drop as she relaxed. “Oh God, I can’t even imagine!” He nodded in agreement. “Who is it then?”
He paused, taking her in, hands on her hips, eyes bright and wide oceans of blue, brimming with curiosity, skin light and refreshed after her long and undoubtedly greasy day. “Me,” he finally said, satisfied smirk.
Her mouth hung open, genuine shock across her face. “You?” She stammered, the hint of joy coloring her voice.
“Well gee, don’t look so shocked! I happen to be qualified!” He joked with her, and she rolled her eyes, smile widening across her face.
“James!” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, James, that’s fantastic!” And with that she brought him in for a hug, quickly melding her body against his, and she squeezed him tightly. He could feel her smile against his cheek, soft and reassuring.
He held her there, arms wrapped around her waist, pressing her into him, and he briefly leaned his face into the crook of her neck, breathing in the sweet just-washed scent of her hair, a dreamy floral air that he had come to associate with her and words like home and happy and beautiful.
When, exactly, had she moved in on him like this, replacing the harsh and jaded parts of his heart with something warmer and lighter, a bright and happy smile? When had it happened that things like dinner and bad 80’s pop and shop talk had become not a mundane task or annoyance, but instead the highlight of his day? When had she molded herself to fit so nicely in his arms?
She squeezed him tighter and laughed. “It’s just a glorified security guard job in a Free Science Commune, not like I got drafted by the Yankees or anything.”
She pulled back, keeping her hands slightly below his shoulders. “Oh, stop it. It’s great.” She hugged him quickly again, placing her hand softly against his cheek and pressing a light kiss against his temple. She moved back from him, her eyes deliberately meeting his. “I’m proud of you,” she told him, her voice steady and sure with a mix of something else, something light. And she was, he could tell, her sweet-and-sour smile, her shining eyes. She was proud of him, who would have guessed it?
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing the hand that had dropped down into his own. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for, surely not just the congratulations; rather a million other things, from the food on the table to the smiles she shoots him when she sees him during the day to her being here, staying with him all those months ago.
“You’re the boss now, James,” she broke his brief reverie, turning to take a seat. “You get to order people around and actually have authority to back it up.” She looked up at him standing next to her and shot him a teasing grin.
He let out an amused chuckle, moving to pull out his chair. “You know what, just for that,” and he paused for a second as she folded her arms up on the table, almost daring him, “I’m not telling you any passwords.”
She snorted out a laugh, reaching for a bowl of potatoes. “Yeah right.”