Lost: Empty Space
Title: Empty Space
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sawyer/Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 243
Summary: She's not here
Notes: Probably set the morning after Tricia Tanaka is Dead? Idk. Written for aboutbunnies at the dead fandom comment fic meme, who requested Sawyer/Kate and the prompt Oh the ocean rolls us away away away/And I lose your hand through the waves. Thanks to ozqueen for looking it over! Any mistakes/inaccurate Sawyerisms are mine only.
The sun sears through his eyelids, and he wakes up with a growl at some ungodly hour. Worse, it's a day he finally could've slept late: this beach may still be on Hell-on-Earth Island, but at least he don't got rock-hauling duty anymore.
He wrenches the tent closed and tries to go back to sleep, but the air's too humid and sticky. He punches the tarp aside, kicks off his jeans. He's in the ocean too quick to let himself glance over at her tent for any sign she's come back. She wants to risk her life traipsing off to rescue the Doc? Fine. Best of luck to her.
It's high tide, and the salt water stings his arms and face. Some chatty drunk in a bar once mused at him that real freedom was bein' able to piss in the ocean. "Real freedom my ass," he mutters. Real freedom is when you're far, far away from prison bars and cages. Real freedom is getting the hell off this island. Real freedom is not giving a crap about anybody. Every man for himself.
(If she gets herself killed going back to that place...)
He ain't ever gonna be free, not from any of it. He'll be pissing in this ocean for the rest of his sorry-ass life. The waves roll over him; there's too much salt and too much sand, and the ocean is too damn big.
He hates that she's not here.
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sawyer/Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 243
Summary: She's not here
Notes: Probably set the morning after Tricia Tanaka is Dead? Idk. Written for aboutbunnies at the dead fandom comment fic meme, who requested Sawyer/Kate and the prompt Oh the ocean rolls us away away away/And I lose your hand through the waves. Thanks to ozqueen for looking it over! Any mistakes/inaccurate Sawyerisms are mine only.
The sun sears through his eyelids, and he wakes up with a growl at some ungodly hour. Worse, it's a day he finally could've slept late: this beach may still be on Hell-on-Earth Island, but at least he don't got rock-hauling duty anymore.
He wrenches the tent closed and tries to go back to sleep, but the air's too humid and sticky. He punches the tarp aside, kicks off his jeans. He's in the ocean too quick to let himself glance over at her tent for any sign she's come back. She wants to risk her life traipsing off to rescue the Doc? Fine. Best of luck to her.
It's high tide, and the salt water stings his arms and face. Some chatty drunk in a bar once mused at him that real freedom was bein' able to piss in the ocean. "Real freedom my ass," he mutters. Real freedom is when you're far, far away from prison bars and cages. Real freedom is getting the hell off this island. Real freedom is not giving a crap about anybody. Every man for himself.
(If she gets herself killed going back to that place...)
He ain't ever gonna be free, not from any of it. He'll be pissing in this ocean for the rest of his sorry-ass life. The waves roll over him; there's too much salt and too much sand, and the ocean is too damn big.
He hates that she's not here.