For the Valentine's Day Story Tree
Written for thefannishwaldo's Cuddles, Snuggles, Kisses and Porn Multi-Fandom Story Tree on DW. Wasn't aware I had to choose between DW and LJ, so, although this one isn't on the LJ Tree, the rest will be.
First fic in well over a year so...apologies and all that.
Title: Beginnings
Fandom: Lost: Desmond, Sawyer
Word Count: 532
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's surprising what you can learn over a bottle of water.
Many thanks to hendercats and her Fics Fixed on the Fly service!
Beginnings
“‘Happy day, quack, quack.’ as my dear ol’ mama used to say. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Only it wasn’t the cat dragging something in. As far as he could recall, Sawyer had never seen a cat on the island, which was pretty odd considering the other wildlife that did abound: Hurley-birds, vengeance seeking boars with pointy tusks, the occasional tree frog. Fucking polar bears. But no cats.
“Your mum kept a badling of ducks, did she?” Desmond peered through the tendrils of hair nearly covering his eyes, hair darkened by humidity, sweat and sea spray, curling in upturned question marks against his forehead. “Bad luck about the cat, brother.” He dropped easily to the sand at the foot of Sawyer’s throne, pulling two water bottles from his pack, offering one to Sawyer as he deftly flipped up the top on his own.
“What? No!” Sawyer scowled as he opened the bottle. “What’s a badling? Another one of them Shakespeare words you limeys like to throw around to confuse the rest of the world?” A smug grin replaced the scowl as Sawyer tossed off the insult.
“I’m Scottish,” Desmond commented as a matter of routine. It was always the same with Sawyer, any slur, no matter how misplaced, was cause for celebration. “I’m surprised you haven’t run across the word in all of your recreational reading.” He glanced at the stack of books Sawyer had accumulated, neatly piled just inside his shelter beside the bundle of magazines and the random instruction manual he had scavenged from the wreckage.
“TV’s not getting’ Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom here Scottie,” Sawyer deadpanned. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, the book mobile ain’t been by in a while, so my assortment of readin’ material is kinda limited at the moment.” He frowned down at Desmond, who gazed back with a serene smile. “Anyone ever tell you you looked like Jesus?”
Desmond chuckled. “Well, I was almost a priest once.” He took another long pull at the water bottle and added, “It’s the proper word for a gathering of ducks, badling. A collective noun.”
Sawyer had cocked his head to one side and was studying Desmond carefully. “Almost a priest? Do tell.” Jesus-Desmond ducked his head, a flush of embarrassment pooling nicely beneath his deeply tanned skin.
“I got fired.” Desmond looked up and smiled, setting off an array of creases and crinkles around his eyes and mouth. Happy certainly looked good on that face.
Sawyer considered a moment, then kicked back in his chair and confessed, “I was a preacher once upon a time.”
Gobsmacked. Right-between-the-eyes dumbfounded. “Sorry? You...you were what?”
“Yep,” Sawyer said proudly. “A bible-thumpin’, soul savin’ evangelical preacher with my own little flock of believers just waitin’ to be fleeced.” He rummaged beneath his seat and produced a bottle of something vaguely brown and alcoholic looking which bore the ubiquitous black and white Dharma logo, took a slug and offered it to a bemused Desmond.
“And you were fired?” Desmond asked, choking down the generic swill.
“Nope,” blue eyes sparkled with memory and mischief. “Got caught!”
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First fic in well over a year so...apologies and all that.
Title: Beginnings
Fandom: Lost: Desmond, Sawyer
Word Count: 532
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's surprising what you can learn over a bottle of water.
Many thanks to hendercats and her Fics Fixed on the Fly service!
Beginnings
“‘Happy day, quack, quack.’ as my dear ol’ mama used to say. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Only it wasn’t the cat dragging something in. As far as he could recall, Sawyer had never seen a cat on the island, which was pretty odd considering the other wildlife that did abound: Hurley-birds, vengeance seeking boars with pointy tusks, the occasional tree frog. Fucking polar bears. But no cats.
“Your mum kept a badling of ducks, did she?” Desmond peered through the tendrils of hair nearly covering his eyes, hair darkened by humidity, sweat and sea spray, curling in upturned question marks against his forehead. “Bad luck about the cat, brother.” He dropped easily to the sand at the foot of Sawyer’s throne, pulling two water bottles from his pack, offering one to Sawyer as he deftly flipped up the top on his own.
“What? No!” Sawyer scowled as he opened the bottle. “What’s a badling? Another one of them Shakespeare words you limeys like to throw around to confuse the rest of the world?” A smug grin replaced the scowl as Sawyer tossed off the insult.
“I’m Scottish,” Desmond commented as a matter of routine. It was always the same with Sawyer, any slur, no matter how misplaced, was cause for celebration. “I’m surprised you haven’t run across the word in all of your recreational reading.” He glanced at the stack of books Sawyer had accumulated, neatly piled just inside his shelter beside the bundle of magazines and the random instruction manual he had scavenged from the wreckage.
“TV’s not getting’ Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom here Scottie,” Sawyer deadpanned. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, the book mobile ain’t been by in a while, so my assortment of readin’ material is kinda limited at the moment.” He frowned down at Desmond, who gazed back with a serene smile. “Anyone ever tell you you looked like Jesus?”
Desmond chuckled. “Well, I was almost a priest once.” He took another long pull at the water bottle and added, “It’s the proper word for a gathering of ducks, badling. A collective noun.”
Sawyer had cocked his head to one side and was studying Desmond carefully. “Almost a priest? Do tell.” Jesus-Desmond ducked his head, a flush of embarrassment pooling nicely beneath his deeply tanned skin.
“I got fired.” Desmond looked up and smiled, setting off an array of creases and crinkles around his eyes and mouth. Happy certainly looked good on that face.
Sawyer considered a moment, then kicked back in his chair and confessed, “I was a preacher once upon a time.”
Gobsmacked. Right-between-the-eyes dumbfounded. “Sorry? You...you were what?”
“Yep,” Sawyer said proudly. “A bible-thumpin’, soul savin’ evangelical preacher with my own little flock of believers just waitin’ to be fleeced.” He rummaged beneath his seat and produced a bottle of something vaguely brown and alcoholic looking which bore the ubiquitous black and white Dharma logo, took a slug and offered it to a bemused Desmond.
“And you were fired?” Desmond asked, choking down the generic swill.
“Nope,” blue eyes sparkled with memory and mischief. “Got caught!”
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