ff: when suddenly, a girl
title: when suddenly, a girl
pairing: sawyer/juliet
word count: 865
notes: for angela_weber and anythingbutgrey for being my cheerleaders during these frustrating few weeks. many, many thanks. there are remnants of your prompts in here somewhere. i love you guys and hope you like this but, if you don't, lie, okay?
There is a time when he meets her over the top of a paperback, her fairy tale eyes scanning down row to row, her unpainted nails absently flicking at the bent edge of the cover, a secret story unfolding right there in her mind; her presence is a riptide, a sneakily strong undertoe, though in that dusky afternoon light he doesn’t know why.
There is an evening in their bedroom when she tugs her hair out of her ponytail, flipping her head forward, snaking her fingers through her wild waterfall of blonde. “I hate it sometimes,” she said, untangling knots, waging war with impolite frizz. She let it fall indelicately over the tired curves of her shoulders, crossing and meeting however it felt fit, and she sighed as she looked in the mirror, her muscles relaxing, her mind cooling down.
She grumbled a bit as she lathered on moisturizer, the last little touches to the end of her day. He laughed a little, an absent chuckle that stayed deep in his throat, because she got like that sometimes, railed against the maintenance of so much hair, her propensity to burn red as a lobster in the afternoon sun, her nails, her feet, the awkward way she could only attempt to dance. Darlin, you’re gorgeous, he’d tell her, his fingers lost somewhere behind her neck. The tomato look is sexy, he’d say, dotting aloe along her pinked shoulder, cool cream mixed unfairly with the painful pleasure of light kisses.
He watched her as she stood there, worn cloth shorts, an old borrowed tee, watched her from the bed she would soon crawl into, sighs escaping her lips as she curled up next to him, hair tickling his skin, her fingers soft and nearly icy sliding in with his own; a routine he had come to expect, had come to love, even, this one little house and one little room and one little bed. I love you, she would say before she rolled over to sleep, her words a million miles from where he ever thought he’d be, from sticky rum and wet sand, the aching pointing of fingers and mumbles of mistrust, the winding paths in the jungle that confused hope with desperation to now, here, her socks mixed up with his, I love you on her lips.
“Juliet,” he said, the syllables almost a symphony, and he could drown at the sight of her, her antebellum beauty, the simple way she smiled that reached her eyes and squeezed his heart. He didn’t look down to the floor, towards the warped wood and etched lines of pathways that marked those several inches; he didn’t think of platinum and candlelight and Saturday matinee clichés and all the sudsy sonnets he told himself she deserved. She looked at him with wider eyes, the kind that ask questions no one quite knows the answer to, and the ideas of a different man die off and move out, replaced instead by the feel of her hand when they world collapsed beneath them, memories coated in the coughs of black smoke and her patient what’s wrong? when he would come to her door; there were no words, no plans, he found in that moment, only the mixture of one thousand easy mornings, of I missed you and come closer and blues mixed with yellows and the blushing rise of pink, the heavy gravity of her stare.
“James?” she asked, the name buried in the thin skin of a question.
“Marry me,” he said, or, at least, he meant to.
It is a colder day when he catches her over the top of a paperback, and she smiles her hello before he even finds the words. What’s your name, he asks, almost willing himself to guess the answer, and when she tells him it floods his ears like saltwater, fills his mouth like butter as he lets it slide off his tongue. She smiles at that, at the slow way he draws it out, like he’s piecing the word together, a paint-by-number introduction. There are no lines, he finds, no cool come-ons or strategies, they all seem cheap and phony against the south pacific of her eyes, the trusting way she leans in, like she knows his secrets, like they could save the world.
She dog ears her book, one he always meant to read, and lets it sit idly in front of her. James, he says, when he tells her his name, falling out like a reflex, and the word doesn’t sear, doesn’t burn up his senses or get caught in his throat. It doesn’t wrap him like a punishment, doesn’t pull at him like some sort of relentless purgatory, not when she reaches out her hand, her palm clicking in to his.
He opens his mouth to ask her a question - her number, her address, if he can see her again - and somewhere far off he can hear her, almost, a springtime sort of laugh that has melted off the heartache, lapping waves of tears that lightly tint her voice, an electric city smile; yes, he hears, before she says anything at all. Yes, she says, like she knew all along.
pairing: sawyer/juliet
word count: 865
notes: for angela_weber and anythingbutgrey for being my cheerleaders during these frustrating few weeks. many, many thanks. there are remnants of your prompts in here somewhere. i love you guys and hope you like this but, if you don't, lie, okay?
There is a time when he meets her over the top of a paperback, her fairy tale eyes scanning down row to row, her unpainted nails absently flicking at the bent edge of the cover, a secret story unfolding right there in her mind; her presence is a riptide, a sneakily strong undertoe, though in that dusky afternoon light he doesn’t know why.
There is an evening in their bedroom when she tugs her hair out of her ponytail, flipping her head forward, snaking her fingers through her wild waterfall of blonde. “I hate it sometimes,” she said, untangling knots, waging war with impolite frizz. She let it fall indelicately over the tired curves of her shoulders, crossing and meeting however it felt fit, and she sighed as she looked in the mirror, her muscles relaxing, her mind cooling down.
She grumbled a bit as she lathered on moisturizer, the last little touches to the end of her day. He laughed a little, an absent chuckle that stayed deep in his throat, because she got like that sometimes, railed against the maintenance of so much hair, her propensity to burn red as a lobster in the afternoon sun, her nails, her feet, the awkward way she could only attempt to dance. Darlin, you’re gorgeous, he’d tell her, his fingers lost somewhere behind her neck. The tomato look is sexy, he’d say, dotting aloe along her pinked shoulder, cool cream mixed unfairly with the painful pleasure of light kisses.
He watched her as she stood there, worn cloth shorts, an old borrowed tee, watched her from the bed she would soon crawl into, sighs escaping her lips as she curled up next to him, hair tickling his skin, her fingers soft and nearly icy sliding in with his own; a routine he had come to expect, had come to love, even, this one little house and one little room and one little bed. I love you, she would say before she rolled over to sleep, her words a million miles from where he ever thought he’d be, from sticky rum and wet sand, the aching pointing of fingers and mumbles of mistrust, the winding paths in the jungle that confused hope with desperation to now, here, her socks mixed up with his, I love you on her lips.
“Juliet,” he said, the syllables almost a symphony, and he could drown at the sight of her, her antebellum beauty, the simple way she smiled that reached her eyes and squeezed his heart. He didn’t look down to the floor, towards the warped wood and etched lines of pathways that marked those several inches; he didn’t think of platinum and candlelight and Saturday matinee clichés and all the sudsy sonnets he told himself she deserved. She looked at him with wider eyes, the kind that ask questions no one quite knows the answer to, and the ideas of a different man die off and move out, replaced instead by the feel of her hand when they world collapsed beneath them, memories coated in the coughs of black smoke and her patient what’s wrong? when he would come to her door; there were no words, no plans, he found in that moment, only the mixture of one thousand easy mornings, of I missed you and come closer and blues mixed with yellows and the blushing rise of pink, the heavy gravity of her stare.
“James?” she asked, the name buried in the thin skin of a question.
“Marry me,” he said, or, at least, he meant to.
It is a colder day when he catches her over the top of a paperback, and she smiles her hello before he even finds the words. What’s your name, he asks, almost willing himself to guess the answer, and when she tells him it floods his ears like saltwater, fills his mouth like butter as he lets it slide off his tongue. She smiles at that, at the slow way he draws it out, like he’s piecing the word together, a paint-by-number introduction. There are no lines, he finds, no cool come-ons or strategies, they all seem cheap and phony against the south pacific of her eyes, the trusting way she leans in, like she knows his secrets, like they could save the world.
She dog ears her book, one he always meant to read, and lets it sit idly in front of her. James, he says, when he tells her his name, falling out like a reflex, and the word doesn’t sear, doesn’t burn up his senses or get caught in his throat. It doesn’t wrap him like a punishment, doesn’t pull at him like some sort of relentless purgatory, not when she reaches out her hand, her palm clicking in to his.
He opens his mouth to ask her a question - her number, her address, if he can see her again - and somewhere far off he can hear her, almost, a springtime sort of laugh that has melted off the heartache, lapping waves of tears that lightly tint her voice, an electric city smile; yes, he hears, before she says anything at all. Yes, she says, like she knew all along.