Lost fic: The Magazine [Sawyer, Kate, rated R or higher, 2200 words]
Summary: Sawyer finds, and then leaves, a porn magazine in the hatch.
The Magazine
by eponine119
March 19-21, 2021
There's a certain smell in the hatch. It's faint, but detectable and almost indescribable. Stale air, feet, wet cement with an odd ozone freshness like getting zapped with electricity. It's enough to make Sawyer bathe in his cologne to drown it out.
He rests his chin in his hand and sniffs his own wrist, where he dabbed the tiniest drop of cologne, because the bottle he found in the plane wreckage is almost empty. It's got that weird quality to it where when he inhales, it lights up his taste buds like he can taste it.
He thinks about women who wear perfume. Delicate scents that tantalize when you get close to them, floral and vanilla, with the faintest hint of skin. It makes him think of silk blouses, and restaurants, and clean cotton sheets. It's like a daydream of the world back home - a world he ain't likely to see again - and he sighs. The women here smell like salt, seawater, sunshine... and sweat. He doesn't mind it. There's something real about it. It's just not the same.
The computer on the table in front of him begins to beep, little blips like groceries moving across a scanner. He clicks the numbers in with his index finger and looks up at the clock as he presses Execute. The time shuffles itself back to 108.
He finished his book about 42 minutes ago and now he gets up. The joints in his spine crack and his shoulder twinges as he stretches. After a visit to the little boys' room, he stands in the lounge. There's no reason for him to be this bored, except that he is. He walks in a tight circle: same books on the shelves, same records, same kitchen and sofa. He feels like he's been caged, and he hates it.
The bunk room isn't much better, though he's spent less time in here. He frowns and runs his hand beneath the mattress on the top bunk, not expecting to find anything there.
“What the...” he mutters, and raises his chin to try to see what's under there. It's papers, whatever it is, and for a moment he savors the unknown. It could be letters, a treasure map, the explanation of what the hell this island is.
Then he sweeps it onto the floor and sees that it's magazines. The slick pages reflect the lights overhead, so it's not until he bends down to gather them up that he sees the contents - lots of exposed skin and hair. “Oh ho,” he says, collecting his new find. He flips his hair back and looks down at what he's got. They are exactly the kind of magazines you'd expect to find underneath someone's mattress.
So he takes them into the computer room, where it's dark and dank and the triangle windowpanes seem frosted with mold. He kicks his feet up onto the desk and leans back to survey his new treasures, because they are his now.
Several back issues of porn magazines, filled with women before the age of airbrushing. Then he comes to the last one in the stack, which is more ragged and worn than the others. There's a shirtless guy on the front. Sawyer raises his eyebrows and flips through the latter. There's a scifi short story he dog ears to read later, but mostly it's page after page of hard, naked, dudes. Most of whom have mustaches.
Maybe, he thinks, there were Dharma chicks down here at one time, but there's been no one lying on that bunk in years that didn't have something in common with the men in the photos. The photos aren't particularly artistic, but there's something about them. And maybe it's just because it's the only one of its type that it's so beat up. The pages are soft beneath his fingertips, the edges of them bent and worn.
He turns the pages eagerly. He can save the Playpens for when he's back in his tent on the beach, but something like this just belongs in this hatch. It goes with the aesthetic, the vibe. Another few pages and he finds a spread that's to his liking. He checks the clock and finds he's still got minutes and minutes before the computer will require his attention. Sawyer thinks about the shower, but ultimately slides his hand into his jeans.
It feels like it's been a long time. He's alone down here and that means he can sigh and moan as much and as loud as he likes, so he does, and something about the sound and the freedom just makes him that much harder, gets him off that much faster.
Then he leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling, breathing hard, enjoying the feeling of his body, of being relaxed and alive. The moment passes, and he gets up. He washes his hands, and cleans up the mess, and then flips through the rest of the pages. Nothing else really captures his fancy. He figures maybe he's gotten it out of his system. For now.
He hears a noise from the lounge and it ratchets up his heart rate. Somehow he doesn't have to see her, it's enough to just sense her presence, because he knows who it is. He shoves the stack of magazines down the back of his denims to smuggle back to the beach and tugs his shirt down over them. The one with the guys is still lying on the table by itself, and he shoves it into a drawer a moment before Kate appears.
“Just couldn't stay away, could you, Freckles?” he teases her.
She gives him one of her smiles. “I've got the next shift.”
He glances at the clock. “You're a whole seven minutes early.”
“I can go back out,” she offers, but he shakes his head, even though he knew she wasn't going to anyway. “What do you get up to down here?” she asks him.
“Oh, this'n that,” he says, and the back of his neck feels hot, because she could have caught him. He ain't sure that would have been all bad. For a second he imagines her with high color in her cheeks, her soft mouth open and shocked. Then he imagines her turning up her nose and calling him disgusting, and he figures that's probably just about right. It wouldn't have led to other things, the things he fantasizes about at night.
She's picked up his paperback and is reading the cover. “What about you?” he asks. She raises her eyebrows at him questioningly. “What do you get up to down here?”
She shrugs. “There's some good records. Reminds me of... home.” She says the word like it's a place she's reluctant to discuss, and it intrigues him. “You finished with this?” She holds up the novel.
“Take it,” he confirms and she nods her thanks. Her deft hands open the cover and she glances over the first page. The computer beeps. He puts in the numbers and the time cascades back to 108. He slides up from his chair and moves it an inch, offering it to her. He thinks about offering her some company, but he's got those magazines hidden under his shirt and they're beginning to feel awkward. “You enjoy your shift, now,” he says.
Kate shoots him a smile, and turns the page in his book. He wonders what else she's got planned. Whether she'll put on those records, or maybe take a shower. He wonders if she'll finish the book or discard it. Maybe she'd be willing to talk to him about it. It almost makes him laugh, the idea of him discussing books with Kate.
He wonders if she'll open that drawer, and what she'll think if she does.
2. Kate
Kate's never been much of a reader. She can read, obviously, she made straight A's all through school. It just makes her feel restless. She's never been one for sitting still for long periods when she could be doing something.
So she gets about five pages into Sawyer's book and puts it down, not bothering to mark her place. She'll be in this hatch for the next six hours or so. Checking the countdown, she leaves the computer and goes into the lounge. The record player beckons and she flips through the records, putting on something she's never heard of.
It plays through the speakers and she goes to the sink to wash the dishes. She doesn't know whose they are, but they're sitting there and it's something to do. Probably Sawyer's, though she's not sure he's the type to set something down and walk away, to expect others to clean up after him.
She's not even sure why she took his book, except that it cut off his offer of company. Kate doesn't mind being alone down here, to do whatever she wants, out of the view of the rest of the camp. But mostly she didn't want to be alone down here with him. Ever since he was sick, ever since she had what she struggles not to think of as her psychotic break, she's been doing her best to avoid him because she doesn't know how to feel about him, and she doesn't like it.
This train of thought will lead her nowhere, so she shuts it out and listens to the music and watches the water flow from the faucet. Abruptly she smacks the handle to stop it. She walks over to the record player and turns off the noise. Then she walks back into the computer room, glances at the time, and sits back down at the desk.
She could be different here. She has been different here. And they all know her secret and none of them care. She's useful, and helpful. A member of this community. Good. She's good.
Kate traces the letters on the keyboard, careful not to press any of them hard enough to register. It's funny, she thinks, that the numbers aren't worn off. That the Execute button is pristine. How many times must it have been pressed, down in this time capsule, by someone who thought they were doing the right thing.
To distract herself, she goes through the drawers of the metal desk. She finds a bunch of pens that are long-since dried up. An extra ream of computer paper - the funny, old fashioned kind with green and white lines and the sprocket holes on the sides. She hasn't seen a printer. Across the room she looks at the giant computer, with its blinking lights and dials and switches.
In the top drawer, she finds a porn magazine. It makes her laugh and she pulls it out to look at it. Just another historical relic. And it's not even women, it's men, which makes it that much stranger. She turns the pages, half expecting to find the models clothed in Dharma Initiative branded uniforms. But they aren't, they're mostly naked and hairy.
It's been a long time, she thinks.
A really, really long time.
In one spread, there's a guy with blond hair long enough that it brushes against his shoulders. He's got a killer tan and a nice, round, firm butt. He's facing off with a dark-haired guy that has a line of tattoos staining his arm.
Kate sighs.
Wouldn't that just solve all of her problems.
She hooks one ankle around the leg of the chair and turns the page. She turns a few more, and then she turns back to look at them again. The resemblance is superficial, but it's enough to set her imagination into motion.
She would have been better off reading. But it's too late for that now.
She had planned to take a shower closer to the end of her shift. It's one of her favorite things about the hatch, the ability to get clean, to wash her hair and rub 1970s scented conditioner through its tangles, to stand under the miracle of hot water flowing over her skin until it starts to turn cold, then wrap up in a towel. She might like it better if there was one of those pink plastic razors and some deodorant, but the shower itself is heavenly.
Now she checks the clock, thinking it might be a good time. But there aren't enough minutes left to really do it right. It's already happened to her once, where she lost track of time and when the beeping started, had to run from the shower into the computer room, her feet slipping as she left wet footprints behind her, freezing cold as she typed in the numbers with shampoo suds dripping into her eyes. She's not doing that again.
So she waits, and she stares at the dirty pictures, and she lets herself think. Soon, thinking isn't quite enough and she lets her hand slide over her skin, daydreaming. She's worked herself up enough that it doesn't take long, with the waves moving through her just as the computer begins to beep. She looks at it through unfocused eyes and then shakes her head and types in the numbers.
The countdown clock resets. It's time for her shower. She slips the magazine back into the drawer, turning it face down and putting the stapler on top of it. She might want to look at it again.
End
[I might write more of this some time.]
The Magazine
by eponine119
March 19-21, 2021
There's a certain smell in the hatch. It's faint, but detectable and almost indescribable. Stale air, feet, wet cement with an odd ozone freshness like getting zapped with electricity. It's enough to make Sawyer bathe in his cologne to drown it out.
He rests his chin in his hand and sniffs his own wrist, where he dabbed the tiniest drop of cologne, because the bottle he found in the plane wreckage is almost empty. It's got that weird quality to it where when he inhales, it lights up his taste buds like he can taste it.
He thinks about women who wear perfume. Delicate scents that tantalize when you get close to them, floral and vanilla, with the faintest hint of skin. It makes him think of silk blouses, and restaurants, and clean cotton sheets. It's like a daydream of the world back home - a world he ain't likely to see again - and he sighs. The women here smell like salt, seawater, sunshine... and sweat. He doesn't mind it. There's something real about it. It's just not the same.
The computer on the table in front of him begins to beep, little blips like groceries moving across a scanner. He clicks the numbers in with his index finger and looks up at the clock as he presses Execute. The time shuffles itself back to 108.
He finished his book about 42 minutes ago and now he gets up. The joints in his spine crack and his shoulder twinges as he stretches. After a visit to the little boys' room, he stands in the lounge. There's no reason for him to be this bored, except that he is. He walks in a tight circle: same books on the shelves, same records, same kitchen and sofa. He feels like he's been caged, and he hates it.
The bunk room isn't much better, though he's spent less time in here. He frowns and runs his hand beneath the mattress on the top bunk, not expecting to find anything there.
“What the...” he mutters, and raises his chin to try to see what's under there. It's papers, whatever it is, and for a moment he savors the unknown. It could be letters, a treasure map, the explanation of what the hell this island is.
Then he sweeps it onto the floor and sees that it's magazines. The slick pages reflect the lights overhead, so it's not until he bends down to gather them up that he sees the contents - lots of exposed skin and hair. “Oh ho,” he says, collecting his new find. He flips his hair back and looks down at what he's got. They are exactly the kind of magazines you'd expect to find underneath someone's mattress.
So he takes them into the computer room, where it's dark and dank and the triangle windowpanes seem frosted with mold. He kicks his feet up onto the desk and leans back to survey his new treasures, because they are his now.
Several back issues of porn magazines, filled with women before the age of airbrushing. Then he comes to the last one in the stack, which is more ragged and worn than the others. There's a shirtless guy on the front. Sawyer raises his eyebrows and flips through the latter. There's a scifi short story he dog ears to read later, but mostly it's page after page of hard, naked, dudes. Most of whom have mustaches.
Maybe, he thinks, there were Dharma chicks down here at one time, but there's been no one lying on that bunk in years that didn't have something in common with the men in the photos. The photos aren't particularly artistic, but there's something about them. And maybe it's just because it's the only one of its type that it's so beat up. The pages are soft beneath his fingertips, the edges of them bent and worn.
He turns the pages eagerly. He can save the Playpens for when he's back in his tent on the beach, but something like this just belongs in this hatch. It goes with the aesthetic, the vibe. Another few pages and he finds a spread that's to his liking. He checks the clock and finds he's still got minutes and minutes before the computer will require his attention. Sawyer thinks about the shower, but ultimately slides his hand into his jeans.
It feels like it's been a long time. He's alone down here and that means he can sigh and moan as much and as loud as he likes, so he does, and something about the sound and the freedom just makes him that much harder, gets him off that much faster.
Then he leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling, breathing hard, enjoying the feeling of his body, of being relaxed and alive. The moment passes, and he gets up. He washes his hands, and cleans up the mess, and then flips through the rest of the pages. Nothing else really captures his fancy. He figures maybe he's gotten it out of his system. For now.
He hears a noise from the lounge and it ratchets up his heart rate. Somehow he doesn't have to see her, it's enough to just sense her presence, because he knows who it is. He shoves the stack of magazines down the back of his denims to smuggle back to the beach and tugs his shirt down over them. The one with the guys is still lying on the table by itself, and he shoves it into a drawer a moment before Kate appears.
“Just couldn't stay away, could you, Freckles?” he teases her.
She gives him one of her smiles. “I've got the next shift.”
He glances at the clock. “You're a whole seven minutes early.”
“I can go back out,” she offers, but he shakes his head, even though he knew she wasn't going to anyway. “What do you get up to down here?” she asks him.
“Oh, this'n that,” he says, and the back of his neck feels hot, because she could have caught him. He ain't sure that would have been all bad. For a second he imagines her with high color in her cheeks, her soft mouth open and shocked. Then he imagines her turning up her nose and calling him disgusting, and he figures that's probably just about right. It wouldn't have led to other things, the things he fantasizes about at night.
She's picked up his paperback and is reading the cover. “What about you?” he asks. She raises her eyebrows at him questioningly. “What do you get up to down here?”
She shrugs. “There's some good records. Reminds me of... home.” She says the word like it's a place she's reluctant to discuss, and it intrigues him. “You finished with this?” She holds up the novel.
“Take it,” he confirms and she nods her thanks. Her deft hands open the cover and she glances over the first page. The computer beeps. He puts in the numbers and the time cascades back to 108. He slides up from his chair and moves it an inch, offering it to her. He thinks about offering her some company, but he's got those magazines hidden under his shirt and they're beginning to feel awkward. “You enjoy your shift, now,” he says.
Kate shoots him a smile, and turns the page in his book. He wonders what else she's got planned. Whether she'll put on those records, or maybe take a shower. He wonders if she'll finish the book or discard it. Maybe she'd be willing to talk to him about it. It almost makes him laugh, the idea of him discussing books with Kate.
He wonders if she'll open that drawer, and what she'll think if she does.
2. Kate
Kate's never been much of a reader. She can read, obviously, she made straight A's all through school. It just makes her feel restless. She's never been one for sitting still for long periods when she could be doing something.
So she gets about five pages into Sawyer's book and puts it down, not bothering to mark her place. She'll be in this hatch for the next six hours or so. Checking the countdown, she leaves the computer and goes into the lounge. The record player beckons and she flips through the records, putting on something she's never heard of.
It plays through the speakers and she goes to the sink to wash the dishes. She doesn't know whose they are, but they're sitting there and it's something to do. Probably Sawyer's, though she's not sure he's the type to set something down and walk away, to expect others to clean up after him.
She's not even sure why she took his book, except that it cut off his offer of company. Kate doesn't mind being alone down here, to do whatever she wants, out of the view of the rest of the camp. But mostly she didn't want to be alone down here with him. Ever since he was sick, ever since she had what she struggles not to think of as her psychotic break, she's been doing her best to avoid him because she doesn't know how to feel about him, and she doesn't like it.
This train of thought will lead her nowhere, so she shuts it out and listens to the music and watches the water flow from the faucet. Abruptly she smacks the handle to stop it. She walks over to the record player and turns off the noise. Then she walks back into the computer room, glances at the time, and sits back down at the desk.
She could be different here. She has been different here. And they all know her secret and none of them care. She's useful, and helpful. A member of this community. Good. She's good.
Kate traces the letters on the keyboard, careful not to press any of them hard enough to register. It's funny, she thinks, that the numbers aren't worn off. That the Execute button is pristine. How many times must it have been pressed, down in this time capsule, by someone who thought they were doing the right thing.
To distract herself, she goes through the drawers of the metal desk. She finds a bunch of pens that are long-since dried up. An extra ream of computer paper - the funny, old fashioned kind with green and white lines and the sprocket holes on the sides. She hasn't seen a printer. Across the room she looks at the giant computer, with its blinking lights and dials and switches.
In the top drawer, she finds a porn magazine. It makes her laugh and she pulls it out to look at it. Just another historical relic. And it's not even women, it's men, which makes it that much stranger. She turns the pages, half expecting to find the models clothed in Dharma Initiative branded uniforms. But they aren't, they're mostly naked and hairy.
It's been a long time, she thinks.
A really, really long time.
In one spread, there's a guy with blond hair long enough that it brushes against his shoulders. He's got a killer tan and a nice, round, firm butt. He's facing off with a dark-haired guy that has a line of tattoos staining his arm.
Kate sighs.
Wouldn't that just solve all of her problems.
She hooks one ankle around the leg of the chair and turns the page. She turns a few more, and then she turns back to look at them again. The resemblance is superficial, but it's enough to set her imagination into motion.
She would have been better off reading. But it's too late for that now.
She had planned to take a shower closer to the end of her shift. It's one of her favorite things about the hatch, the ability to get clean, to wash her hair and rub 1970s scented conditioner through its tangles, to stand under the miracle of hot water flowing over her skin until it starts to turn cold, then wrap up in a towel. She might like it better if there was one of those pink plastic razors and some deodorant, but the shower itself is heavenly.
Now she checks the clock, thinking it might be a good time. But there aren't enough minutes left to really do it right. It's already happened to her once, where she lost track of time and when the beeping started, had to run from the shower into the computer room, her feet slipping as she left wet footprints behind her, freezing cold as she typed in the numbers with shampoo suds dripping into her eyes. She's not doing that again.
So she waits, and she stares at the dirty pictures, and she lets herself think. Soon, thinking isn't quite enough and she lets her hand slide over her skin, daydreaming. She's worked herself up enough that it doesn't take long, with the waves moving through her just as the computer begins to beep. She looks at it through unfocused eyes and then shakes her head and types in the numbers.
The countdown clock resets. It's time for her shower. She slips the magazine back into the drawer, turning it face down and putting the stapler on top of it. She might want to look at it again.
End
[I might write more of this some time.]