Fic: Hear No Evil (1/1)
Title: Hear No Evil
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet, implied Sawyer/Kate
Word Count: 2,707
Summary: She’s the sort of woman, apparently, that will forever be kicked when she’s down. For the 50scenes Prompt #1 - Twilight. Sequel to One, but can be read alone. Spoilers through 5.09 - Namaste.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title courtesy of INXS.
Author’s Notes: Last in a three-story arc, based on the official reintroduction of everyone’s least/most favorite love quadrilateral as of “Namaste.” This part rather eluded me, but suddenly, something came of it, which was awesome. Featuring romantic!Sawyer, and quite possibly over-the-top on Juliet’s part in particular... but I was feeling some angsty-romantic-fluff, so she’s playing the role for today.
Hear No Evil
The sun has yet to rise, but it doesn’t have to; so far as she’s concerned, it never has to rise again. Even without the glow of dawn through the trees, she can see his shadow against the thin curtains, his silhouette against the panes of glass as he meanders towards the door, loitering as if he doesn’t belong, as if he’s nervous - unsettled; like the house he’s circling isn’t even his to come home to.
She hears the subtle scrape of hinges grinding as he eases open the front door, remnants from a shoddy repair job he’d managed their second week there, when the draft had given her a chill and he’d tried to replace the frame. His boots on the floor in the kitchen are heavy, tormented, and they beat out a twisted elegy with every echo through the hall, reaching her ears and cutting through her, each step like a knife to the heart when she’s already bleeding - she’s the sort of woman, apparently, that will forever be kicked when she’s down. His keyring falls from the countertop with a splintering crash, each individual key clinking against the forever-dated tiling, and she can almost see the corner of the geometric pattern near the stove that has been chipped away for two years now, victim of the same predictably careless swipe of his arm; the way he cocks his elbow when he moves to unzip his jumpsuit.
She sees him, in her mind, the ever-familiar shape of him as he swears under his breath and bends, crouching to retrieve the fallen keys and replacing them with greater care just a bit closer to the coffee pot and farther from the sink, frustration at the inconvenience always noticeable in the set of his brow as he shrugs out of his sleeves, leaving the top half of his khaki uniform to hang limp from his torso. She can see it - all of it - without even thinking, and it’s the little things that start adding up in her mind, start seeping in to the holes of emptiness that were beginning to swallow her, filling them to the brim with something much more sinister, much more vicious - something that claws from the inside of her chest and sears against the back of her throat, tightening her lungs and burning at the corners of her eyes that makes her feel as if the entire world is ending - or else, as if the entire world is moving on and she alone is a single fixed point, doomed to be left behind again and again, losing a piece of herself each and every time, gradually eroding away until there’s simply nothing left.
The suction of the refrigerator door wrenches her back from the edge, and she knows that once he indulges in a bite of the dinner he missed and a quick swallow of milk straight from the carton, he’ll come to bed; she knows she won’t be able to face him, knows that she cannot pretend that they’re okay, that what they have is real anymore: the illusion is shattered, and if they lay down together, they’ll both be sliced to ribbons by the pieces that remain. Carefully, barely even breathing, she slips from under the covers, bolting for the shower before he can step across the threshold, before he can tell her the truth and ruin her for good.
The water is cold at first, and it steals her breath, but she doesn’t care - the battery of the constant stream of ice on her naked skin is distracting; she cannot hear him over its predictable hum. She cups her hands beneath the spray, letting the water gather and seep through the cracks in her fingers, spill over the heels of her palms and cascade down the curves of her wrists, all the while feeling the phantom of him, the wraith-like memory of hands running over her shoulders, massaging her scalp; of feather-light kisses trailing across the small of her back, of his tongue running the line of her inner thighs and his palms cupping her ass, willing her closer as he worships her with his mouth beneath the rain of their own private storm. The water is warmer now, hot enough to burn her skin, but she doesn’t notice - the pond between her hands falls like a crash of thunder, the dream of his touch washed away, and the tears on her cheeks are only real because she’s choked with them, because she cannot catch her breath and she’s shaking, shivering in a cloud of steam; a wave of regret.
She’s on the floor of the bathtub, her forehead propped against her knees as she fights the sobs that are rattling in her chest, forcing themselves out into the fray as her nails dig into the flesh of her calves, scoring half-moons into the skin in order to ground her, each angry red crescent making it all more real, inescapable - even if her legs could hold her up, she couldn’t outrun the undeniable fact that everything by which she'd come to define her world was about to be swept out from under her, without hesitation or remorse.
Just gone.
She hears the voice, but not the creak of the door preceding it, and therefore she thinks it illusive, a figment of her imagination calling to her, asking to join her, to wash her hair and kiss her lips and run soft hands and a bar of soap everywhere he could reach, his breath cool against her soaked limbs, her slick navel, the wet valley between her breasts.
“Jules?” The voice is soft, almost concerned, but giving - loving - and it only makes her cry harder as the sound echoes through the room, resonating with the bitter tang of loss that floods her tongue as she sobs, sucking in mouthfuls of water from the pounding shower as she struggles for air in gasps, unable to control herself, unable to gather her emotions and recreate some semblance of restraint; she can’t, and she doesn’t want to. All she wants is for everything to stop.
So it’s unexpected when the shower curtain is torn quickly back, the rings jangling on the bar with the harsh, dissonant shrieks of metal on metal, sending a jolt up her spine as her eyes fix upon the only man she ever wants to see. She watches as his eyes widen and his jaw drops just a tad, his gaze narrowed upon her; hears the sharp intake of his breath as he falls to his knees next to the bath, the zipper pull on his jumpsuit swinging hypnotically in the middle of his stomach as he leans in, a terrified sort of whisper escaping his mouth as he hisses - “Jesus...” - and gathers her face between his hands, her bloodshot eyes drifting closed as she relishes the feel of him, just for a moment, etching it in her memory so that she won’t ever forget that she was loved, once; she was loved.
“What is it?” he asks her, and she can only shake her head, the tears still falling, catching hotter than the water from the shower head against his knuckles as she lurches with the force of her sobs, rocking first towards him before pulling away, chest heaving in the dark. “What’s wrong?” His thumb traces the line of her cheek, the curve of her jaw as he weaves his fingers into the tangled, dripping mats of her hair, and she feels the tenderness, feels the fear in him as she tries to find the words to answer him, tries to find her voice, but knows that its futile, knows that she’s too far gone now - she has to ride this out, has to empty herself of everything before she can face the inevitable with her head held high.
Her silence isn’t good enough for him, as she starts to cry with less force but more despair, the tangible ache sinking into him just from looking at her, and within the blink of an eye she’s pressed against him, clothing and all, as he heaves himself into the tub, the spray casting shadows on his uniform, drenching the thin cotton underneath as it soaks in, the outline of her breasts, her chin drawn onto the fabric for the briefest of moments before everything is washed away.
He holds her, clings to her tighter than he ever has before, and instead of feeling smothered, she feels safe; she’s isn’t strong enough to resist him, isn’t cold enough yet to deny herself one last morning with his arms around her, with her cheek pressed against his chest, the sound of the water drowning her from above only peripheral against the rush of his heart beneath her ear - fuck, she’s going to miss this.
“Talk to me,” he urges her, lips just below her ear, kissing at the sensitive skin; the rumble of his voice no more than the softest of growls underneath the torrent of the shower, the frantic clamor of his pulse.
“You...” she gasps, her nerve failing her with the escape of a sob from deep in her throat; she has to bury her face in his shoulder for a moment, pausing with his hand against her back, soothing her as the words spill forth, unchecked: “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He pulls away, rivulets of water dripping down his face from where the shower hits the crown of his head, but the distance between them only seems to make him more eager to be near her, his hands more needy on her flesh as he tries to take her in from just his touch. “What?” his tone is incredulous, and she knows he doesn’t understand - still thinks he has to pretend; her heart breaks just a little more, the edges left from the fracture just a tad more jagged at the mere thought of saying it, of making it true beyond a doubt in the recognition, the affirmation she knows she will find in his eyes.
“For her...” she hiccups, afraid to meet his gaze as the words fail her, the scratch of air that escapes her now broken and unclear as she mouths; “For Kate.”
The universe spins with the force of it, with the world-changing, life-altering admission as it’s sucked into the thick mist that billows around them, the subtle fall of the condensation on the shower walls. She cannot focus, she cannot see - everything is different now, everything is strange and wrong and...
“Look at me.” His voice is her rock, and it steadies her as he coaxes her chin up, brushing his hand along the side of her face in askance, begging her without words to meet his eyes; she tries to deny him, but something deeper answers instead, needs to see him, to know him to the very last, and take all that he’s willing to give for as long as she can.
“She don’t got nothin’ on us, Jules,” he hisses vehemently, the musky heat of his breath settling on her skin as he watches her, a desperate sort of passion shining bright and unquenchable in his eyes as they dart between her own. “Nothin’. You understand me?”
She doesn’t, but she desperately wants to; she stares blankly at him, praying silently that this isn’t a trick, isn’t a game - that she’s been wrong, so very wrong, and that what he’s telling her now is the truth. The hope welling in her chest is so intense that it’s painful, powerful enough to crush her entirely, to strangle her and kill her on the spot.
“I love you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering there, speaking into her skin, as if hoping the words would sink in somewhere more permanent, would register with more assurance, more certainty. “I’m with you. I want you, Juliet, and nobody else.”
She searches his eyes - those earnest, pleading eyes that she’s never been able to resist, not entirely - and she’s lost; she’s gone, she can feel nothing, and all she knows is relief, because within the span of a second, it’s over. She’s not sure yet if he’s telling her the truth, or just what he knows she wants to hear, but either way, it means that he cares. She’s hasn’t been forgotten yet.
The tears that take her are unforgiving, undeterred, and she falls against him, living only in the context of his soft, constant stream of reassurances as he runs his hands up and down her back, in soft patterns across the back of her neck. “Shh... shh... honey, come on,” he whispers, slowly tilting her face away from his shoulder so that the air comes easier as she arches against the gasping of her lungs. “Come on, shh...”
“You,” she whispers, the tears beginning to subside as she simply slumps against him, drained and drenched and so very tired. “You’re... you’re sure?”
The hand stroking her hair stops, and she regrets speaking immediately, because she misses the touch. “You serious?” he asks, regret and frustration and a profound level of sadness all mingling in his tone before he sighs, his fingers lilting along her hairline, down to the shell of her ear. “Christ... you have to ask?”
He moves her against him, her cheek dragging along the soaked collar of his shirt as he lifts her up, looking her in the eye, urging her to feel what he is about to say with everything she is, to know it beyond a doubt. “I need you, Jules,” he breathes, voice rough and thick with the weight of the admission; a weakness he doesn’t often afford himself, and only ever does allow when he’s with her. “Need you like I ain’t ever needed anyone.” He leans in and captures her lips, the kiss soft and unassuming, but honest and filled with a soaring sort of necessity, a need that makes her feel as if the whole of existence might end if ever she lost this, if they ever ceased to be.
“I love you,” he murmurs as he breaks away, and she’s never heard his voice sound quite so vulnerable, quite so fierce as it does against those simple words, her very favorite words. “I love you.”
And she believes him, and it’s enough; if only because she’s too tired, too weak to consider the alternative.
He shuts off the water, standing slowly, her hands clasped in his as he helps her up. He strips his clothes, peeling them from his skin and leaving them in a heap atop the drain, grabbing for a towel and rubbing gentle circles with it along her hairline, soaking up the excess dampness in her hair before patting softly at her face, running the tip of his finger under her eyelashes to collect the stray droplets clinging to the tips. He tends carefully, dutifully to every inch of her, in no rush, and only pausing when she starts to sway, exhaustion seizing her, or when her knees begin to buckle. It’s a dream, a beautiful dream, and it’s only in these fleeting moments when real sleep threatens her that she realizes he’s truly there.
He wraps her in the towel as he finishes, straightening himself and pulling her close, breathing her in for a long moment before helping her out of the bath and back to their bed, where the sheets feel crisp and new, somehow; where his bare chest against her back feels like home. She sighs, his arms circling her, his hands clasping across her stomach, entangled with her own - he doesn’t ask questions, he only whispers into her hair:
“Sleep now. Just sleep.”
Cradled against his warmth - the whisper of his breath only just ghosting across the nape of her neck - it isn’t hard to comply.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet, implied Sawyer/Kate
Word Count: 2,707
Summary: She’s the sort of woman, apparently, that will forever be kicked when she’s down. For the 50scenes Prompt #1 - Twilight. Sequel to One, but can be read alone. Spoilers through 5.09 - Namaste.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title courtesy of INXS.
Author’s Notes: Last in a three-story arc, based on the official reintroduction of everyone’s least/most favorite love quadrilateral as of “Namaste.” This part rather eluded me, but suddenly, something came of it, which was awesome. Featuring romantic!Sawyer, and quite possibly over-the-top on Juliet’s part in particular... but I was feeling some angsty-romantic-fluff, so she’s playing the role for today.
Hear No Evil
The sun has yet to rise, but it doesn’t have to; so far as she’s concerned, it never has to rise again. Even without the glow of dawn through the trees, she can see his shadow against the thin curtains, his silhouette against the panes of glass as he meanders towards the door, loitering as if he doesn’t belong, as if he’s nervous - unsettled; like the house he’s circling isn’t even his to come home to.
She hears the subtle scrape of hinges grinding as he eases open the front door, remnants from a shoddy repair job he’d managed their second week there, when the draft had given her a chill and he’d tried to replace the frame. His boots on the floor in the kitchen are heavy, tormented, and they beat out a twisted elegy with every echo through the hall, reaching her ears and cutting through her, each step like a knife to the heart when she’s already bleeding - she’s the sort of woman, apparently, that will forever be kicked when she’s down. His keyring falls from the countertop with a splintering crash, each individual key clinking against the forever-dated tiling, and she can almost see the corner of the geometric pattern near the stove that has been chipped away for two years now, victim of the same predictably careless swipe of his arm; the way he cocks his elbow when he moves to unzip his jumpsuit.
She sees him, in her mind, the ever-familiar shape of him as he swears under his breath and bends, crouching to retrieve the fallen keys and replacing them with greater care just a bit closer to the coffee pot and farther from the sink, frustration at the inconvenience always noticeable in the set of his brow as he shrugs out of his sleeves, leaving the top half of his khaki uniform to hang limp from his torso. She can see it - all of it - without even thinking, and it’s the little things that start adding up in her mind, start seeping in to the holes of emptiness that were beginning to swallow her, filling them to the brim with something much more sinister, much more vicious - something that claws from the inside of her chest and sears against the back of her throat, tightening her lungs and burning at the corners of her eyes that makes her feel as if the entire world is ending - or else, as if the entire world is moving on and she alone is a single fixed point, doomed to be left behind again and again, losing a piece of herself each and every time, gradually eroding away until there’s simply nothing left.
The suction of the refrigerator door wrenches her back from the edge, and she knows that once he indulges in a bite of the dinner he missed and a quick swallow of milk straight from the carton, he’ll come to bed; she knows she won’t be able to face him, knows that she cannot pretend that they’re okay, that what they have is real anymore: the illusion is shattered, and if they lay down together, they’ll both be sliced to ribbons by the pieces that remain. Carefully, barely even breathing, she slips from under the covers, bolting for the shower before he can step across the threshold, before he can tell her the truth and ruin her for good.
The water is cold at first, and it steals her breath, but she doesn’t care - the battery of the constant stream of ice on her naked skin is distracting; she cannot hear him over its predictable hum. She cups her hands beneath the spray, letting the water gather and seep through the cracks in her fingers, spill over the heels of her palms and cascade down the curves of her wrists, all the while feeling the phantom of him, the wraith-like memory of hands running over her shoulders, massaging her scalp; of feather-light kisses trailing across the small of her back, of his tongue running the line of her inner thighs and his palms cupping her ass, willing her closer as he worships her with his mouth beneath the rain of their own private storm. The water is warmer now, hot enough to burn her skin, but she doesn’t notice - the pond between her hands falls like a crash of thunder, the dream of his touch washed away, and the tears on her cheeks are only real because she’s choked with them, because she cannot catch her breath and she’s shaking, shivering in a cloud of steam; a wave of regret.
She’s on the floor of the bathtub, her forehead propped against her knees as she fights the sobs that are rattling in her chest, forcing themselves out into the fray as her nails dig into the flesh of her calves, scoring half-moons into the skin in order to ground her, each angry red crescent making it all more real, inescapable - even if her legs could hold her up, she couldn’t outrun the undeniable fact that everything by which she'd come to define her world was about to be swept out from under her, without hesitation or remorse.
Just gone.
She hears the voice, but not the creak of the door preceding it, and therefore she thinks it illusive, a figment of her imagination calling to her, asking to join her, to wash her hair and kiss her lips and run soft hands and a bar of soap everywhere he could reach, his breath cool against her soaked limbs, her slick navel, the wet valley between her breasts.
“Jules?” The voice is soft, almost concerned, but giving - loving - and it only makes her cry harder as the sound echoes through the room, resonating with the bitter tang of loss that floods her tongue as she sobs, sucking in mouthfuls of water from the pounding shower as she struggles for air in gasps, unable to control herself, unable to gather her emotions and recreate some semblance of restraint; she can’t, and she doesn’t want to. All she wants is for everything to stop.
So it’s unexpected when the shower curtain is torn quickly back, the rings jangling on the bar with the harsh, dissonant shrieks of metal on metal, sending a jolt up her spine as her eyes fix upon the only man she ever wants to see. She watches as his eyes widen and his jaw drops just a tad, his gaze narrowed upon her; hears the sharp intake of his breath as he falls to his knees next to the bath, the zipper pull on his jumpsuit swinging hypnotically in the middle of his stomach as he leans in, a terrified sort of whisper escaping his mouth as he hisses - “Jesus...” - and gathers her face between his hands, her bloodshot eyes drifting closed as she relishes the feel of him, just for a moment, etching it in her memory so that she won’t ever forget that she was loved, once; she was loved.
“What is it?” he asks her, and she can only shake her head, the tears still falling, catching hotter than the water from the shower head against his knuckles as she lurches with the force of her sobs, rocking first towards him before pulling away, chest heaving in the dark. “What’s wrong?” His thumb traces the line of her cheek, the curve of her jaw as he weaves his fingers into the tangled, dripping mats of her hair, and she feels the tenderness, feels the fear in him as she tries to find the words to answer him, tries to find her voice, but knows that its futile, knows that she’s too far gone now - she has to ride this out, has to empty herself of everything before she can face the inevitable with her head held high.
Her silence isn’t good enough for him, as she starts to cry with less force but more despair, the tangible ache sinking into him just from looking at her, and within the blink of an eye she’s pressed against him, clothing and all, as he heaves himself into the tub, the spray casting shadows on his uniform, drenching the thin cotton underneath as it soaks in, the outline of her breasts, her chin drawn onto the fabric for the briefest of moments before everything is washed away.
He holds her, clings to her tighter than he ever has before, and instead of feeling smothered, she feels safe; she’s isn’t strong enough to resist him, isn’t cold enough yet to deny herself one last morning with his arms around her, with her cheek pressed against his chest, the sound of the water drowning her from above only peripheral against the rush of his heart beneath her ear - fuck, she’s going to miss this.
“Talk to me,” he urges her, lips just below her ear, kissing at the sensitive skin; the rumble of his voice no more than the softest of growls underneath the torrent of the shower, the frantic clamor of his pulse.
“You...” she gasps, her nerve failing her with the escape of a sob from deep in her throat; she has to bury her face in his shoulder for a moment, pausing with his hand against her back, soothing her as the words spill forth, unchecked: “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He pulls away, rivulets of water dripping down his face from where the shower hits the crown of his head, but the distance between them only seems to make him more eager to be near her, his hands more needy on her flesh as he tries to take her in from just his touch. “What?” his tone is incredulous, and she knows he doesn’t understand - still thinks he has to pretend; her heart breaks just a little more, the edges left from the fracture just a tad more jagged at the mere thought of saying it, of making it true beyond a doubt in the recognition, the affirmation she knows she will find in his eyes.
“For her...” she hiccups, afraid to meet his gaze as the words fail her, the scratch of air that escapes her now broken and unclear as she mouths; “For Kate.”
The universe spins with the force of it, with the world-changing, life-altering admission as it’s sucked into the thick mist that billows around them, the subtle fall of the condensation on the shower walls. She cannot focus, she cannot see - everything is different now, everything is strange and wrong and...
“Look at me.” His voice is her rock, and it steadies her as he coaxes her chin up, brushing his hand along the side of her face in askance, begging her without words to meet his eyes; she tries to deny him, but something deeper answers instead, needs to see him, to know him to the very last, and take all that he’s willing to give for as long as she can.
“She don’t got nothin’ on us, Jules,” he hisses vehemently, the musky heat of his breath settling on her skin as he watches her, a desperate sort of passion shining bright and unquenchable in his eyes as they dart between her own. “Nothin’. You understand me?”
She doesn’t, but she desperately wants to; she stares blankly at him, praying silently that this isn’t a trick, isn’t a game - that she’s been wrong, so very wrong, and that what he’s telling her now is the truth. The hope welling in her chest is so intense that it’s painful, powerful enough to crush her entirely, to strangle her and kill her on the spot.
“I love you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering there, speaking into her skin, as if hoping the words would sink in somewhere more permanent, would register with more assurance, more certainty. “I’m with you. I want you, Juliet, and nobody else.”
She searches his eyes - those earnest, pleading eyes that she’s never been able to resist, not entirely - and she’s lost; she’s gone, she can feel nothing, and all she knows is relief, because within the span of a second, it’s over. She’s not sure yet if he’s telling her the truth, or just what he knows she wants to hear, but either way, it means that he cares. She’s hasn’t been forgotten yet.
The tears that take her are unforgiving, undeterred, and she falls against him, living only in the context of his soft, constant stream of reassurances as he runs his hands up and down her back, in soft patterns across the back of her neck. “Shh... shh... honey, come on,” he whispers, slowly tilting her face away from his shoulder so that the air comes easier as she arches against the gasping of her lungs. “Come on, shh...”
“You,” she whispers, the tears beginning to subside as she simply slumps against him, drained and drenched and so very tired. “You’re... you’re sure?”
The hand stroking her hair stops, and she regrets speaking immediately, because she misses the touch. “You serious?” he asks, regret and frustration and a profound level of sadness all mingling in his tone before he sighs, his fingers lilting along her hairline, down to the shell of her ear. “Christ... you have to ask?”
He moves her against him, her cheek dragging along the soaked collar of his shirt as he lifts her up, looking her in the eye, urging her to feel what he is about to say with everything she is, to know it beyond a doubt. “I need you, Jules,” he breathes, voice rough and thick with the weight of the admission; a weakness he doesn’t often afford himself, and only ever does allow when he’s with her. “Need you like I ain’t ever needed anyone.” He leans in and captures her lips, the kiss soft and unassuming, but honest and filled with a soaring sort of necessity, a need that makes her feel as if the whole of existence might end if ever she lost this, if they ever ceased to be.
“I love you,” he murmurs as he breaks away, and she’s never heard his voice sound quite so vulnerable, quite so fierce as it does against those simple words, her very favorite words. “I love you.”
And she believes him, and it’s enough; if only because she’s too tired, too weak to consider the alternative.
He shuts off the water, standing slowly, her hands clasped in his as he helps her up. He strips his clothes, peeling them from his skin and leaving them in a heap atop the drain, grabbing for a towel and rubbing gentle circles with it along her hairline, soaking up the excess dampness in her hair before patting softly at her face, running the tip of his finger under her eyelashes to collect the stray droplets clinging to the tips. He tends carefully, dutifully to every inch of her, in no rush, and only pausing when she starts to sway, exhaustion seizing her, or when her knees begin to buckle. It’s a dream, a beautiful dream, and it’s only in these fleeting moments when real sleep threatens her that she realizes he’s truly there.
He wraps her in the towel as he finishes, straightening himself and pulling her close, breathing her in for a long moment before helping her out of the bath and back to their bed, where the sheets feel crisp and new, somehow; where his bare chest against her back feels like home. She sighs, his arms circling her, his hands clasping across her stomach, entangled with her own - he doesn’t ask questions, he only whispers into her hair:
“Sleep now. Just sleep.”
Cradled against his warmth - the whisper of his breath only just ghosting across the nape of her neck - it isn’t hard to comply.