Fic: Better Times Collide With Now (1/1)
Title: Better Times Collide With Now
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 1,162
Summary: Maybe they’re not such a bad match, after all. For ozmissage, who requested “Sawyer/Juliet. You won't remember anything/Some of us don't believe in time/And some of us don't believe in life” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers Through Series Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This entire fic came out of a single line, so I really hope that everything aside from said single line isn't complete and utter drivel.
Better Times Collide With Now
They never wake up at the same time.
Either he’s on nights, and he sleeps until noon, or he’s called in for something important at the crack of dawn; Juliet, well, she gets up when the alarm sounds -- 6:37 AM, because the damn thing’s busted and she can’t change the time -- and they share a bed, to keep up appearances, but it’s big enough that he doesn’t bother her when he gets up; he doesn’t stir if she slips out before him: they’re both sound enough sleepers that they’re not going to rouse if they don’t want to, don’t have to.
It works, in its way.
__________________________
The closest they get, half the time, is when they shower.
After work, she’s always full of grease, and he’s always slick with sweat, and they both get back to the compound proper within the same fifteen minutes every afternoon. She sneaks in first, when she can, takes up more of the hot water than is probably fair, but he only ever grouses and smirks at her for it, so she thinks it’s probably more a game than anything else.
Sometimes, they’re both in a hurry, and she’s wrapping a towel around her as he’s stripping his boxer and climbing in beneath the spray -- it’s the closest they get, half the time.
__________________________
Nine times out of ten, she wonders why in the hell he bothered saying they were a couple in the first place -- wonders what, exactly, that had to do with anything, what it could have possibly added to the half-assed cover he’d concocted for them to live out, the roles he’d cast them in as he’d saved their asses that night, sitting half-prisoner on the rec-room couch.
It’s not like he hasn’t told her, of course -- not as if he hasn’t explained that romance, interpersonal solidarity, it distracts people, makes them look authentic. And she can buy that; and he’s not unfortunate looking, or more of an ass than some of the men she’s been with -- most of the men she’s been with -- so she can play the role he wants her to, well enough.
It’s just... she wonders.
Because sometimes, she wakes up pressed too close to his back in their bed. And sometimes, when he jokes that they should shower together, to save water and time, he sounds almost serious. And sometimes she looks at him, and he’s looking at her, and it’s a look that means something, even if she doesn’t know what, and on top of everything, she has to wonder why in the hell she was looking at him in the first place to notice it at all.
Because nothing good can come of this, she tells herself. Nothing good can come of them. Because the truth is, he’s just trying to find the missing pieces by looking everywhere but where he left them. And fuck, she’s fixing engines.
And maybe he did sneak into the motorpool on their second day, and helped her figure what the hell a carburetor looked like. And maybe she’s got an eye for detail, noticed when his headaches got worse and scrounged him up a pair of decent eyeglasses in her spare time. Maybe they work better together than she suspected they could, in the beginning, and maybe they even have a rhythm going -- maybe she makes dinners and he does dishes and she burns things sometimes, and he doesn’t complain, eats it anyway. And maybe he bitches about washing the plates by hand, and she doesn’t do a thing except to smile.
It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself: it can only end in tears.
And nine time out of ten, she believes it.
__________________________
Then again, there’s that one time out of ten.
She gets off early one Wednesday, swings by the cafeteria and asks Samuel if he’s got her bottle of merlot, because she’d been hearing through the grapevine recently that Jim was going to be promoted from sector patrol today, and there’s s celebration in order. Sam smiles and hands the wine over by the neck of the bottle and she grins, wraps her palm wide around the bottom and rights the glass in the crook of her arm, leans in to give the old man a kiss on the cheek in thanks as she makes her way back to the barracks.
She’s still about twenty minutes ahead of schedule; she comes in through the back -- it’s closer -- and she hides the wine in a corner by the pasta and the herbs she’s been slowly collecting for the occasion: she’s not particularly culinarily inclined, but she can make a mean spaghetti.
She starts the water to a boil before she even changes her clothes, not enough time to shower just yet, even if Jim will be late, congratulated by Jin and Phil and Jerry, and Horace and Randy and Paul and the others, because everyone loves Jim.
Everyone loves Jim.
She bites her lip and dumps the noodles into the water, ducks away from the steam that rises as she pops open a can of Dharma-issue tomato sauce and starts it warming, sprinkling basil and oregano in turn as she stirs, dipping her finger in to taste and test the warmth, every so often.
She hears him come in, and she’s not quick enough, because there’s sauce on her lip when she turns and he’s in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning at her like he’s happy, and she flips the burners off on the stove and goes to give him a hug -- full-bodied, both hands around him, and he kisses her on the cheek when she congratulates him, quick but sweet; gentlemanly, almost -- and fuck if it doesn’t feel kinda-sorta right.
He watches her through the whole meal, and she watches him, and it means something, and she doesn’t wonder why she was looking at him to notice it in the first place.
And maybe he is trying to find the pieces, and maybe she is just fixing engines. But she’s got an eye for detail, and he can navigate the parts of a car. She found him a pair of glasses. He showed her how to change the oil.
And when they’re done with their dinner, flushed with a bit of alcohol and good -- fucking good company; when he winks and asks her to join him in the shower, as he always does, for the environment’s sake; when he asks, she grins and she almost -- she almost says yes.
Maybe it’s not such a bad match, after all.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 1,162
Summary: Maybe they’re not such a bad match, after all. For ozmissage, who requested “Sawyer/Juliet. You won't remember anything/Some of us don't believe in time/And some of us don't believe in life” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers Through Series Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This entire fic came out of a single line, so I really hope that everything aside from said single line isn't complete and utter drivel.
Better Times Collide With Now
They never wake up at the same time.
Either he’s on nights, and he sleeps until noon, or he’s called in for something important at the crack of dawn; Juliet, well, she gets up when the alarm sounds -- 6:37 AM, because the damn thing’s busted and she can’t change the time -- and they share a bed, to keep up appearances, but it’s big enough that he doesn’t bother her when he gets up; he doesn’t stir if she slips out before him: they’re both sound enough sleepers that they’re not going to rouse if they don’t want to, don’t have to.
It works, in its way.
__________________________
The closest they get, half the time, is when they shower.
After work, she’s always full of grease, and he’s always slick with sweat, and they both get back to the compound proper within the same fifteen minutes every afternoon. She sneaks in first, when she can, takes up more of the hot water than is probably fair, but he only ever grouses and smirks at her for it, so she thinks it’s probably more a game than anything else.
Sometimes, they’re both in a hurry, and she’s wrapping a towel around her as he’s stripping his boxer and climbing in beneath the spray -- it’s the closest they get, half the time.
__________________________
Nine times out of ten, she wonders why in the hell he bothered saying they were a couple in the first place -- wonders what, exactly, that had to do with anything, what it could have possibly added to the half-assed cover he’d concocted for them to live out, the roles he’d cast them in as he’d saved their asses that night, sitting half-prisoner on the rec-room couch.
It’s not like he hasn’t told her, of course -- not as if he hasn’t explained that romance, interpersonal solidarity, it distracts people, makes them look authentic. And she can buy that; and he’s not unfortunate looking, or more of an ass than some of the men she’s been with -- most of the men she’s been with -- so she can play the role he wants her to, well enough.
It’s just... she wonders.
Because sometimes, she wakes up pressed too close to his back in their bed. And sometimes, when he jokes that they should shower together, to save water and time, he sounds almost serious. And sometimes she looks at him, and he’s looking at her, and it’s a look that means something, even if she doesn’t know what, and on top of everything, she has to wonder why in the hell she was looking at him in the first place to notice it at all.
Because nothing good can come of this, she tells herself. Nothing good can come of them. Because the truth is, he’s just trying to find the missing pieces by looking everywhere but where he left them. And fuck, she’s fixing engines.
And maybe he did sneak into the motorpool on their second day, and helped her figure what the hell a carburetor looked like. And maybe she’s got an eye for detail, noticed when his headaches got worse and scrounged him up a pair of decent eyeglasses in her spare time. Maybe they work better together than she suspected they could, in the beginning, and maybe they even have a rhythm going -- maybe she makes dinners and he does dishes and she burns things sometimes, and he doesn’t complain, eats it anyway. And maybe he bitches about washing the plates by hand, and she doesn’t do a thing except to smile.
It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself: it can only end in tears.
And nine time out of ten, she believes it.
__________________________
Then again, there’s that one time out of ten.
She gets off early one Wednesday, swings by the cafeteria and asks Samuel if he’s got her bottle of merlot, because she’d been hearing through the grapevine recently that Jim was going to be promoted from sector patrol today, and there’s s celebration in order. Sam smiles and hands the wine over by the neck of the bottle and she grins, wraps her palm wide around the bottom and rights the glass in the crook of her arm, leans in to give the old man a kiss on the cheek in thanks as she makes her way back to the barracks.
She’s still about twenty minutes ahead of schedule; she comes in through the back -- it’s closer -- and she hides the wine in a corner by the pasta and the herbs she’s been slowly collecting for the occasion: she’s not particularly culinarily inclined, but she can make a mean spaghetti.
She starts the water to a boil before she even changes her clothes, not enough time to shower just yet, even if Jim will be late, congratulated by Jin and Phil and Jerry, and Horace and Randy and Paul and the others, because everyone loves Jim.
Everyone loves Jim.
She bites her lip and dumps the noodles into the water, ducks away from the steam that rises as she pops open a can of Dharma-issue tomato sauce and starts it warming, sprinkling basil and oregano in turn as she stirs, dipping her finger in to taste and test the warmth, every so often.
She hears him come in, and she’s not quick enough, because there’s sauce on her lip when she turns and he’s in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning at her like he’s happy, and she flips the burners off on the stove and goes to give him a hug -- full-bodied, both hands around him, and he kisses her on the cheek when she congratulates him, quick but sweet; gentlemanly, almost -- and fuck if it doesn’t feel kinda-sorta right.
He watches her through the whole meal, and she watches him, and it means something, and she doesn’t wonder why she was looking at him to notice it in the first place.
And maybe he is trying to find the pieces, and maybe she is just fixing engines. But she’s got an eye for detail, and he can navigate the parts of a car. She found him a pair of glasses. He showed her how to change the oil.
And when they’re done with their dinner, flushed with a bit of alcohol and good -- fucking good company; when he winks and asks her to join him in the shower, as he always does, for the environment’s sake; when he asks, she grins and she almost -- she almost says yes.
Maybe it’s not such a bad match, after all.