Lost fic: I Cried to Dream Again (Sawyer, PG13, 500 words)
Lost: Is not mine
Notes: written for cliche-bingo prompt yearning and obliviousness. Bingo! Title, fittingly, from Shakespeare's The Tempest. Set in season one but with spoilers through season five. Sawyer/Juliet, PG-13, about 500 words.
I Cried to Dream Again
by eponine119
August 1, 2009
Sawyer sleeps on the plane.
As the miles slide by beneath its metal belly, he dreams and finds himself on an island. The air is heavy with humidity. He can feel it sink into the surface of his skin.
The island is strange and nothing makes sense but it all seems normal, in the way that dreams do. Monsters and villains and mysteries, and people he's never met before standing in as the characters.
There's one girl with long dark hair and a look in her eyes like Cassidy. He thinks he loves her but she's the personification of his guilt.
He reads in the dream, weird books, with tesseracts and lies.
There is a man who always challenges him. Who tries to lead and gets under his skin with presumed authority. This man is his father and not-father, his own celestial mirror twin.
Suburbia exists on the island. It's somehow the 70s, and he thinks this is a dream about what might have been, if things had been different. A life he might have had. He wears glasses and there is a woman with his mother's blond hair. He lives with her. He loves her, really loves her, the way he was born to love and never has been able to.
Their first night together, they lie in bed and kiss for what seems like hours, a lifetime. He wants to go slow and she doesn't protest. She holds him in her arms, slim and strong, all night.
He craves her body, a physical longing for what he is missing. Her scent and her taste. His body grows warm and heavy, his breathing labored. He needs to feel her surrounding him, just one more time, one last time. He needs her mysterious smile, her hair falling down against his chest, her smooth pale skin beneath his sun-dark, roughened hands.
With a flash of white light he bolts awake.
He is on a plane, his heart racing. As he breathes and leans back into his seat, he wishes he could recapture the dream. Live inside it. Not in his three-days-dirty shirt and jeans, not just out of jail, deported, with his mission accomplished and blood on his hands. He can taste the gunpowder from the hot weapon, smell the drowning rain that drenched him that night.
Alone with three hundred other people. His seatmate jostles for armrest dominance.
If he looked around, he would see them, the people from his dream. But he'd chalk it up to the airport and suggestibility.
He doesn't know that a mile below, hidden in the depths of time and space and the unpredictable Pacific, in the flash of a moment it all could have been real. Electromagnetism, falling, crashing, landing. At that moment she's crying and doesn't really know why -- it's not about burned muffins or lack of control or her sister, it's about what she's missing in her life.
He closes his eyes, praying he can return to the island just one more time.
End
Notes: written for cliche-bingo prompt yearning and obliviousness. Bingo! Title, fittingly, from Shakespeare's The Tempest. Set in season one but with spoilers through season five. Sawyer/Juliet, PG-13, about 500 words.
I Cried to Dream Again
by eponine119
August 1, 2009
Sawyer sleeps on the plane.
As the miles slide by beneath its metal belly, he dreams and finds himself on an island. The air is heavy with humidity. He can feel it sink into the surface of his skin.
The island is strange and nothing makes sense but it all seems normal, in the way that dreams do. Monsters and villains and mysteries, and people he's never met before standing in as the characters.
There's one girl with long dark hair and a look in her eyes like Cassidy. He thinks he loves her but she's the personification of his guilt.
He reads in the dream, weird books, with tesseracts and lies.
There is a man who always challenges him. Who tries to lead and gets under his skin with presumed authority. This man is his father and not-father, his own celestial mirror twin.
Suburbia exists on the island. It's somehow the 70s, and he thinks this is a dream about what might have been, if things had been different. A life he might have had. He wears glasses and there is a woman with his mother's blond hair. He lives with her. He loves her, really loves her, the way he was born to love and never has been able to.
Their first night together, they lie in bed and kiss for what seems like hours, a lifetime. He wants to go slow and she doesn't protest. She holds him in her arms, slim and strong, all night.
He craves her body, a physical longing for what he is missing. Her scent and her taste. His body grows warm and heavy, his breathing labored. He needs to feel her surrounding him, just one more time, one last time. He needs her mysterious smile, her hair falling down against his chest, her smooth pale skin beneath his sun-dark, roughened hands.
With a flash of white light he bolts awake.
He is on a plane, his heart racing. As he breathes and leans back into his seat, he wishes he could recapture the dream. Live inside it. Not in his three-days-dirty shirt and jeans, not just out of jail, deported, with his mission accomplished and blood on his hands. He can taste the gunpowder from the hot weapon, smell the drowning rain that drenched him that night.
Alone with three hundred other people. His seatmate jostles for armrest dominance.
If he looked around, he would see them, the people from his dream. But he'd chalk it up to the airport and suggestibility.
He doesn't know that a mile below, hidden in the depths of time and space and the unpredictable Pacific, in the flash of a moment it all could have been real. Electromagnetism, falling, crashing, landing. At that moment she's crying and doesn't really know why -- it's not about burned muffins or lack of control or her sister, it's about what she's missing in her life.
He closes his eyes, praying he can return to the island just one more time.
End