ff: number the days that are left (sawyer, kate)
title: number the days that are left
characters: sawyer, kate; past sawyer/kate, implied past sawyer/juliet
word count: 758
summary: she’s never known what to say, and that’s the blank unfairness of it all
notes: i dislike this pairing with an intensity that remains unrivaled. i make no attempt to be nice to them. i do, however, try to be fair. much thanks to
angela_weber for her thumbs up and once-over, without which this probably would have remained hidden in fear on my harddrive.
She’s dirty in a way that mimics different days, a chaotic lawlessness and fight for survival in the rough smudges on her face, in the bold lines of sweat down her neck, across her back, the jungle leaving tell-tale marks on her skin. This is how she always looks when he thinks of her.
It’s bright still, despite the passage of hours, and the filtered warmth of the sunlight coats him with a choking feeling. She stands against a tree, her head cast slightly down, her eyes cast slightly up. It all looks the same, but it has the head rush like dizziness of a veiled illusion, of something quite not right or real. He misses the feel of a gun. He aches for one in his hand, his fingers flexing with the desire, his arm wanting for the weight. It is something familiar, something he knows, a metallic cure-all that mixes hate and need so finely. He begins to reach for one, anticipating the cool refreshment of it under his palm, and he hears her rustle a bit, shifting her weight beneath her feet. He rolls his head away from her, a deliberate and sinister movement, blocking out the sight of her pathetically concerned eyes, of her tied and tumbling hair. There’s a boulder in his gut, a dense and heavy pull on his limbs, and he can feel her stare, just like always, and the fierce burning in him is not anger, no - anger is too easy for her.
“Sawyer, I’m so sorry,” she begins, the words reaching out like the well-meaning touch of a cool, steady hand. He grimaces a little, but she doesn’t notice, and he doesn’t want her to. There are pinpricks, tiny jagged shards of something under his skin mixed with the worn blanket of her voice, and it slices and stabs at him, the now gaping hollowness of earlier comfort in her easy tenor. It’s not her voice he wants to hear. The thought of platitudes makes him grow nauseous, so he takes a step away from her, his legs uneasy beneath him in this now unsteady world; she closes the space with two, a typical and predictable dance. He tightens his grip on the handle of the gun, his blood pumping on guilt, his mind ticking on blame.
“Sawyer, this isn’t what she’d-” she starts to say, the thread of caring rich and strong, but the words fumble in her mind, hitch in her voice as she successfully bites back tears. She’s never known what to say, and that’s the blank unfairness of it all, her grasping silence fillers where others can’t speak. He keeps his gaze away, his jaw clenching at the onslaught of thoughts, and he hears her let out a pitiful sigh, just feet from him, so real and alive and whole; but mountain ranges and ocean trenches span the distance between their two worlds, between where they are and where they used to be.
He doesn’t look at her, she carries so much in her face, his sensible hopelessness, the words she never said, the things she never did, who she is, who she isn’t, all mixed in her skin and eyes and mangled, messy curls. With his gaze fixed away it is easy to wonder what it would be like to break her, to ease her out of existence, drop by glorious drop; to punish both of them, all of them, in one swift motion for the ignorant decisions that led them to this moment, that gave birth to this withdrawn rage. Maybe it would be easier then, maybe it would be easier with blood on his hands.
“She wouldn’t want,” she tries again, but this time he stops her, turning quickly, ribbons of hardship and heartache in the lines of his face, a lost and sorrowfully broken stare, his mind backlogged with words and laughs and soft, generous touches and all the things he knows, all the things she doesn’t.
He stands a little straighter, his words rumbling with a dark, husky conviction. “Don’t you,” he pauses, the words sticking in his throat; there’s a gravely rawness of loss in his voice and he shakes his head once, eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments, and right then it doesn’t matter what she says, it doesn’t matter if she’s right. So little matters now, it seems. He looks her in the eye, where he sees everything and nothing at all.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, and then he walks past, away from her.
characters: sawyer, kate; past sawyer/kate, implied past sawyer/juliet
word count: 758
summary: she’s never known what to say, and that’s the blank unfairness of it all
notes: i dislike this pairing with an intensity that remains unrivaled. i make no attempt to be nice to them. i do, however, try to be fair. much thanks to
angela_weber for her thumbs up and once-over, without which this probably would have remained hidden in fear on my harddrive.
She’s dirty in a way that mimics different days, a chaotic lawlessness and fight for survival in the rough smudges on her face, in the bold lines of sweat down her neck, across her back, the jungle leaving tell-tale marks on her skin. This is how she always looks when he thinks of her.
It’s bright still, despite the passage of hours, and the filtered warmth of the sunlight coats him with a choking feeling. She stands against a tree, her head cast slightly down, her eyes cast slightly up. It all looks the same, but it has the head rush like dizziness of a veiled illusion, of something quite not right or real. He misses the feel of a gun. He aches for one in his hand, his fingers flexing with the desire, his arm wanting for the weight. It is something familiar, something he knows, a metallic cure-all that mixes hate and need so finely. He begins to reach for one, anticipating the cool refreshment of it under his palm, and he hears her rustle a bit, shifting her weight beneath her feet. He rolls his head away from her, a deliberate and sinister movement, blocking out the sight of her pathetically concerned eyes, of her tied and tumbling hair. There’s a boulder in his gut, a dense and heavy pull on his limbs, and he can feel her stare, just like always, and the fierce burning in him is not anger, no - anger is too easy for her.
“Sawyer, I’m so sorry,” she begins, the words reaching out like the well-meaning touch of a cool, steady hand. He grimaces a little, but she doesn’t notice, and he doesn’t want her to. There are pinpricks, tiny jagged shards of something under his skin mixed with the worn blanket of her voice, and it slices and stabs at him, the now gaping hollowness of earlier comfort in her easy tenor. It’s not her voice he wants to hear. The thought of platitudes makes him grow nauseous, so he takes a step away from her, his legs uneasy beneath him in this now unsteady world; she closes the space with two, a typical and predictable dance. He tightens his grip on the handle of the gun, his blood pumping on guilt, his mind ticking on blame.
“Sawyer, this isn’t what she’d-” she starts to say, the thread of caring rich and strong, but the words fumble in her mind, hitch in her voice as she successfully bites back tears. She’s never known what to say, and that’s the blank unfairness of it all, her grasping silence fillers where others can’t speak. He keeps his gaze away, his jaw clenching at the onslaught of thoughts, and he hears her let out a pitiful sigh, just feet from him, so real and alive and whole; but mountain ranges and ocean trenches span the distance between their two worlds, between where they are and where they used to be.
He doesn’t look at her, she carries so much in her face, his sensible hopelessness, the words she never said, the things she never did, who she is, who she isn’t, all mixed in her skin and eyes and mangled, messy curls. With his gaze fixed away it is easy to wonder what it would be like to break her, to ease her out of existence, drop by glorious drop; to punish both of them, all of them, in one swift motion for the ignorant decisions that led them to this moment, that gave birth to this withdrawn rage. Maybe it would be easier then, maybe it would be easier with blood on his hands.
“She wouldn’t want,” she tries again, but this time he stops her, turning quickly, ribbons of hardship and heartache in the lines of his face, a lost and sorrowfully broken stare, his mind backlogged with words and laughs and soft, generous touches and all the things he knows, all the things she doesn’t.
He stands a little straighter, his words rumbling with a dark, husky conviction. “Don’t you,” he pauses, the words sticking in his throat; there’s a gravely rawness of loss in his voice and he shakes his head once, eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments, and right then it doesn’t matter what she says, it doesn’t matter if she’s right. So little matters now, it seems. He looks her in the eye, where he sees everything and nothing at all.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, and then he walks past, away from her.