Poem: Liquid Courage [Lost, Sawyer]
Title: Liquid Courage
Character/s: Sawyer
Rating: N/A
Spoilers: Um... before season three? kinda?
Disclaimer: I can only wish I owned this con man.
Luau request: For Queen elise_509 who needed to be reminded why Sawyer should have love.
Summary: He's waiting and watching, which isn't new.
A/N: For the lostsquee luau; Queen Laura, when you asked for Sawyer goodness, this was what demanded completion. It's been lingering on my flashdrive for a while, but hopefully foots the bill, regardless. Thanks to alliecat8 You know why. ♥
~~~
Liquid Courage
Forearms on the bar top,
polished wood tacky against his skin.
A barrier separates Sawyer from the rest of the bar;
glass and wood cabinet with junk store trinkets
gathering patient dust within. He watches the flat
screen TV through the smudged glass, image slanted
but visible, framed by cherry slats.
The world poker tournament is on; introductory long shot
focuses on a generic roadhouse - parking lot half-full,
rectangular building squat,
windowless in its tidy asphalt ocean.
“Showclub” the sign reads, the camera tightening
down on the faded yellow, dull red words. Sawyer looks away,
picks up his glass. The condensation’s chill
isn’t enough to still the need in his fingers.
He can feel green felt,
waxed cards,
sense-memory superimposes
itself between glass and flesh.
This bar doesn’t hold a hidden
back room, air thick with cigar
smoke and avarice; but there is a pool table.
Even as his thoughts tilt, he hears the echo-click
of billiard balls colliding, imagines gritty blue chalk
grinding down on cue tip. He lifts the glass,
concentrates on the weight of a smooth
clear curve against tongue and bottom
lip, takes a long swallow. Whiskey fire slips
containment’s leash, gilded burn dragging
sweet claws in its wake. With the swallow, his head clears.
I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes.
He sneers.
Looks down, trusting
in blonde streaked
camouflage.
But he did know this
Once- afternoon half-light and murmur
of conversation, low buzz
of worker bees… Sawyer slung forth
that or some other equal slur, noting
normalcy
ignorance
to separate himself from the crowds.
From the marked.
He always considered himself predator, even
when he wasn’t on the hunt. Time
brings clarity, or at least honesty in its wake.
Herd metaphors mask loneliness.
Lip curling at the thought,
at the very idea, he sets the glass
down, stares at the cocktail napkin.
Overlapping circles are embossed in
to white paper pulp, marks left
by his own hands. He grimaces and tries
to ignore that too. Marks, left by his hands.
Glancing down the bar, he sees
two businessmen, after work martinis
heeling at their elbows, like well-trained dogs.
The light filtering through the front window falls
on a trio of green olives, impaled on plastic swords
in each glass. Do they imagine themselves
pirates, corporate raiders? The man to the left,
his blue button-up baring his throat,
has a cellular earpiece corkscrewed tight.
Every few seconds it blinks, cobalt blue.
Sawyer is reminded of landing lights, flashing
on the runaway. His hands curl automatically
in fists, hiding the minute tremors
thoughts of airplanes invoke.
The TV hisses.
Rough going, child
shuffle and slide-
you have no patience
have lost the double blind
hunter’s fortitude, which
was once your right.
If not by birth, then by rebirth
when you resumed breathing
in the wake of shotgun’s fury.
Sneer becomes scowl.
He looks away
from the screen.
Now,
gold means nothing to him.
His pocket, re-stitched, has sturdy lining.
It even smells of green
And of fear, the tidal wake of rescuer’s
Guilt. He doesn’t need… and yet.
His fingers want.
This is not about greed, but
about winning.
Tugged by peripheral motion,
His gaze flickers up.
Sawyer watches the shuffle;
Hearts on clubs
Queen revealed
Jack concealed…
He closes his eyes.
Sawyer’s not sure
what he hopes to win anymore.
~~~
Character/s: Sawyer
Rating: N/A
Spoilers: Um... before season three? kinda?
Disclaimer: I can only wish I owned this con man.
Luau request: For Queen elise_509 who needed to be reminded why Sawyer should have love.
Summary: He's waiting and watching, which isn't new.
A/N: For the lostsquee luau; Queen Laura, when you asked for Sawyer goodness, this was what demanded completion. It's been lingering on my flashdrive for a while, but hopefully foots the bill, regardless. Thanks to alliecat8 You know why. ♥
~~~
Liquid Courage
Forearms on the bar top,
polished wood tacky against his skin.
A barrier separates Sawyer from the rest of the bar;
glass and wood cabinet with junk store trinkets
gathering patient dust within. He watches the flat
screen TV through the smudged glass, image slanted
but visible, framed by cherry slats.
The world poker tournament is on; introductory long shot
focuses on a generic roadhouse - parking lot half-full,
rectangular building squat,
windowless in its tidy asphalt ocean.
“Showclub” the sign reads, the camera tightening
down on the faded yellow, dull red words. Sawyer looks away,
picks up his glass. The condensation’s chill
isn’t enough to still the need in his fingers.
He can feel green felt,
waxed cards,
sense-memory superimposes
itself between glass and flesh.
This bar doesn’t hold a hidden
back room, air thick with cigar
smoke and avarice; but there is a pool table.
Even as his thoughts tilt, he hears the echo-click
of billiard balls colliding, imagines gritty blue chalk
grinding down on cue tip. He lifts the glass,
concentrates on the weight of a smooth
clear curve against tongue and bottom
lip, takes a long swallow. Whiskey fire slips
containment’s leash, gilded burn dragging
sweet claws in its wake. With the swallow, his head clears.
I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes.
He sneers.
Looks down, trusting
in blonde streaked
camouflage.
But he did know this
Once- afternoon half-light and murmur
of conversation, low buzz
of worker bees… Sawyer slung forth
that or some other equal slur, noting
normalcy
ignorance
to separate himself from the crowds.
From the marked.
He always considered himself predator, even
when he wasn’t on the hunt. Time
brings clarity, or at least honesty in its wake.
Herd metaphors mask loneliness.
Lip curling at the thought,
at the very idea, he sets the glass
down, stares at the cocktail napkin.
Overlapping circles are embossed in
to white paper pulp, marks left
by his own hands. He grimaces and tries
to ignore that too. Marks, left by his hands.
Glancing down the bar, he sees
two businessmen, after work martinis
heeling at their elbows, like well-trained dogs.
The light filtering through the front window falls
on a trio of green olives, impaled on plastic swords
in each glass. Do they imagine themselves
pirates, corporate raiders? The man to the left,
his blue button-up baring his throat,
has a cellular earpiece corkscrewed tight.
Every few seconds it blinks, cobalt blue.
Sawyer is reminded of landing lights, flashing
on the runaway. His hands curl automatically
in fists, hiding the minute tremors
thoughts of airplanes invoke.
The TV hisses.
Rough going, child
shuffle and slide-
you have no patience
have lost the double blind
hunter’s fortitude, which
was once your right.
If not by birth, then by rebirth
when you resumed breathing
in the wake of shotgun’s fury.
Sneer becomes scowl.
He looks away
from the screen.
Now,
gold means nothing to him.
His pocket, re-stitched, has sturdy lining.
It even smells of green
And of fear, the tidal wake of rescuer’s
Guilt. He doesn’t need… and yet.
His fingers want.
This is not about greed, but
about winning.
Tugged by peripheral motion,
His gaze flickers up.
Sawyer watches the shuffle;
Hearts on clubs
Queen revealed
Jack concealed…
He closes his eyes.
Sawyer’s not sure
what he hopes to win anymore.
~~~