Lost fic: Tearjerker [Sawyer/Juliet, 1300 words]
Summary: Sawyer cries over sad books
Tearjerker
by eponine119
August 14, 2020
Juliet's cleaning up the kitchen, as she does every night before she gets ready for bed, when she hears an odd noise and it makes her stop and hold still, trying to figure out what it is.
She hears it again, and it's coming from the bedroom. It makes her shoulders tense, and she walks quietly toward it, forcing her steps to be slow and calm.
Sawyer's side of the bed is closest to the door. The lamp on the nightstand is on, and he's lying on his side with a book open. His eyes are closed tight and swollen behind the lenses of his glasses, and there are tears drying on his face.
Juliet pauses in the doorway and thinks about creeping away. She's not quite sure what to do, and she hesitates too long. He opens his eyes and sees her there. His eyes are like slits in his face. She realizes she's never seen him cry before. “Hey,” she says softly. “What's going on?”
He screws his face up into a scowl and looks down at the book. “The dog died.”
“Oh,” Juliet says. She walks over to him. With one hand, she brushes back his hair, just to make that physical connection between them. She gently removes his glasses and folds them up, tucking them away on the nightstand. Next she takes the book, turning down the page because she knows that even though he hates it right now, he'll want to finish it. She looks at the cover. “Books about animals only ever have one ending.”
He squeezes his eyes closed again and sniffles. Her heart aches. She knows it's not just the book. It might have opened the door, but there's more going on inside his head. She sets the book down, and sighs, and sits down on her side of the bed. She still isn't quite sure what to do. She rests her hand on the broad expanse of his back. It shakes under her touch, and his breathing is ragged. He pushes his face into his pillow.
“It's okay to feel sad,” she says, stroking his spine through the soft cotton shirt he's wearing. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“No!”
It's so strong and so quick that it makes her smile for a second. “All right,” she says. “I'm here.” His shoulders aren't shaking any more, and his breathing seems more even. She's gotten used to thinking of him as big and strong and tough. The sarcasm as a defense mechanism tends to fool her, even though she thinks she's always known there was a big, squishy marshmallow heart inside him. She sees it in his eyes; in the way he looks out for the vulnerable; in the way he tries to hide it all.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she offers mildly, still stroking.
He picks up his head and turns over to face her. His poor face, she thinks, and wipes his tears away with her fingers. “A cool cloth will make you feel better,” she says, and starts to get up.
“Don't leave me,” he says, reaching for her wrist, and it's the plainest he's ever asked her for anything.
“I'm here, James,” she says, and he squeezes his eyes shut again as tears flow again. She feathers her fingers through his hair, and gathers him into her arms so he's laying against her.
“I don't want to be alone,” he says, and she knows he doesn't mean just right now.
“I know,” she says simply. She's always known. It's why they're together. In this weird world, out of time, out of space, in yellow houses on mystery island... it's like they really were shipwrecked, and have only each other to cling to.
“The dog was so good, and so sweet, and it didn't understand at all. And it was all alone and hurting.” He's crying again as he tries to explain. To tell her what about the book set him off. She wonders when the last time he had a good cry was. He's probably needed one for a very long time. It's not just the trauma of the 70s for him. It's the plane crash, and losing everyone from it. His life, before that. “Everything's just so damn hard.”
She rocks him a little and uses her nails against his scalp in the way she knows he loves because it makes him shiver. He shivers now, predictably, and lets out something like a laugh. His breath is hot against her skin.
“I'm not a good person, Juliet.”
“You're doing your best,” she says. She looks up at the ceiling. She's not a good person either, but here she's gotten used to thinking of him as a good man. Maybe it's just harder for them. Maybe it's not. Maybe everyone else struggles this much, but never lets it show. She presses a kiss to the corner of his forehead.
“Why do you stay?” he asks her.
Her heart flutters painfully. She hates his self-doubt, though she understands it. She cuddles him a little closer. “Because I love you,” she says, honestly and openly.
He lifts up his head to look her in the eye. She meets his gaze with seriousness, though she wants to smile or raise an eyebrow at him, but she doesn't want to undermine what she said. She doesn't want to give him room to doubt. She blinks at him slowly, and when she opens her eyes, he's still looking at her.
“Why.”
She does smile then, just a little. “For a thousand reasons. Because I do.” She thinks about how his lips would taste of salt if she kissed him, and pats his thigh instead. “You'll feel better if you wash your face. I'm going to get you a glass of water.”
He doesn't move. He just keeps looking at her, like she's something he wants to protect, but he needs her, too. She's got his back. That's when all this started between them. Out in the jungle, all she ever had to do was rest her hand on his arm to calm him. It still works. She rests her fingers on his skin for a fleeting moment, then releases him so she can pour him that glass of water.
Behind her, she hears his noisy sigh, the padding of his footsteps, the water running. She pours him a tall glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and opens the freezer. The ice tray is empty, but there's a pack of peas neither of them will ever want to eat anyway. They meet back in the bedroom.
His nose is swollen, too, she notices, and he's breathing through his mouth because of the congestion. She hands him the glass, and he obediently drains it, without her saying a word. Then he settles in against her again, closing his eyes. She settles the cold pack against his eyelids and across the bridge of his nose. “Feels good,” he breathes, and she thinks he's worn himself out.
She doesn't leave the cold for long against his skin before she takes it away and sets it on the bedside table next to the phone. He doesn't open his eyes. She rubs his forehead, and she can feel him relaxing. “Love you too,” he murmurs. It startles her but also fills her up inside. She smiles a tiny smile in spite of herself. He cries over sad books, and he loves her. What else does she really need?
(end)
Tearjerker
by eponine119
August 14, 2020
Juliet's cleaning up the kitchen, as she does every night before she gets ready for bed, when she hears an odd noise and it makes her stop and hold still, trying to figure out what it is.
She hears it again, and it's coming from the bedroom. It makes her shoulders tense, and she walks quietly toward it, forcing her steps to be slow and calm.
Sawyer's side of the bed is closest to the door. The lamp on the nightstand is on, and he's lying on his side with a book open. His eyes are closed tight and swollen behind the lenses of his glasses, and there are tears drying on his face.
Juliet pauses in the doorway and thinks about creeping away. She's not quite sure what to do, and she hesitates too long. He opens his eyes and sees her there. His eyes are like slits in his face. She realizes she's never seen him cry before. “Hey,” she says softly. “What's going on?”
He screws his face up into a scowl and looks down at the book. “The dog died.”
“Oh,” Juliet says. She walks over to him. With one hand, she brushes back his hair, just to make that physical connection between them. She gently removes his glasses and folds them up, tucking them away on the nightstand. Next she takes the book, turning down the page because she knows that even though he hates it right now, he'll want to finish it. She looks at the cover. “Books about animals only ever have one ending.”
He squeezes his eyes closed again and sniffles. Her heart aches. She knows it's not just the book. It might have opened the door, but there's more going on inside his head. She sets the book down, and sighs, and sits down on her side of the bed. She still isn't quite sure what to do. She rests her hand on the broad expanse of his back. It shakes under her touch, and his breathing is ragged. He pushes his face into his pillow.
“It's okay to feel sad,” she says, stroking his spine through the soft cotton shirt he's wearing. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“No!”
It's so strong and so quick that it makes her smile for a second. “All right,” she says. “I'm here.” His shoulders aren't shaking any more, and his breathing seems more even. She's gotten used to thinking of him as big and strong and tough. The sarcasm as a defense mechanism tends to fool her, even though she thinks she's always known there was a big, squishy marshmallow heart inside him. She sees it in his eyes; in the way he looks out for the vulnerable; in the way he tries to hide it all.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she offers mildly, still stroking.
He picks up his head and turns over to face her. His poor face, she thinks, and wipes his tears away with her fingers. “A cool cloth will make you feel better,” she says, and starts to get up.
“Don't leave me,” he says, reaching for her wrist, and it's the plainest he's ever asked her for anything.
“I'm here, James,” she says, and he squeezes his eyes shut again as tears flow again. She feathers her fingers through his hair, and gathers him into her arms so he's laying against her.
“I don't want to be alone,” he says, and she knows he doesn't mean just right now.
“I know,” she says simply. She's always known. It's why they're together. In this weird world, out of time, out of space, in yellow houses on mystery island... it's like they really were shipwrecked, and have only each other to cling to.
“The dog was so good, and so sweet, and it didn't understand at all. And it was all alone and hurting.” He's crying again as he tries to explain. To tell her what about the book set him off. She wonders when the last time he had a good cry was. He's probably needed one for a very long time. It's not just the trauma of the 70s for him. It's the plane crash, and losing everyone from it. His life, before that. “Everything's just so damn hard.”
She rocks him a little and uses her nails against his scalp in the way she knows he loves because it makes him shiver. He shivers now, predictably, and lets out something like a laugh. His breath is hot against her skin.
“I'm not a good person, Juliet.”
“You're doing your best,” she says. She looks up at the ceiling. She's not a good person either, but here she's gotten used to thinking of him as a good man. Maybe it's just harder for them. Maybe it's not. Maybe everyone else struggles this much, but never lets it show. She presses a kiss to the corner of his forehead.
“Why do you stay?” he asks her.
Her heart flutters painfully. She hates his self-doubt, though she understands it. She cuddles him a little closer. “Because I love you,” she says, honestly and openly.
He lifts up his head to look her in the eye. She meets his gaze with seriousness, though she wants to smile or raise an eyebrow at him, but she doesn't want to undermine what she said. She doesn't want to give him room to doubt. She blinks at him slowly, and when she opens her eyes, he's still looking at her.
“Why.”
She does smile then, just a little. “For a thousand reasons. Because I do.” She thinks about how his lips would taste of salt if she kissed him, and pats his thigh instead. “You'll feel better if you wash your face. I'm going to get you a glass of water.”
He doesn't move. He just keeps looking at her, like she's something he wants to protect, but he needs her, too. She's got his back. That's when all this started between them. Out in the jungle, all she ever had to do was rest her hand on his arm to calm him. It still works. She rests her fingers on his skin for a fleeting moment, then releases him so she can pour him that glass of water.
Behind her, she hears his noisy sigh, the padding of his footsteps, the water running. She pours him a tall glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and opens the freezer. The ice tray is empty, but there's a pack of peas neither of them will ever want to eat anyway. They meet back in the bedroom.
His nose is swollen, too, she notices, and he's breathing through his mouth because of the congestion. She hands him the glass, and he obediently drains it, without her saying a word. Then he settles in against her again, closing his eyes. She settles the cold pack against his eyelids and across the bridge of his nose. “Feels good,” he breathes, and she thinks he's worn himself out.
She doesn't leave the cold for long against his skin before she takes it away and sets it on the bedside table next to the phone. He doesn't open his eyes. She rubs his forehead, and she can feel him relaxing. “Love you too,” he murmurs. It startles her but also fills her up inside. She smiles a tiny smile in spite of herself. He cries over sad books, and he loves her. What else does she really need?
(end)