(no subject)
"and back again," written for oxoniensis's Porn Battle. Sawyer/Kate with a prompt of "domesticity." Current canon, more or less, so spoilerific for those who haven't seen season four.
Those dreams where you know you're dreaming? Where you can think about what reality is like versus what the dream shows you? She's had them more since leaving the island than she has in her whole life.
They're on the island, all of them, and living in those cabins like the whole thing was a planned vacation rather than plane crash. Hurley rooms with Sayid, Claire and Charlie take care of Aaron in their own little house. Sun is with Jin and seems happy. Jack looks tired, but he's lost that hollow look she's started seeing in his eyes.
Sawyer's sitting at her table, a hot plate of scrambled eggs and crunchy bacon and buttered toast in front of him, and she's pouring him a glass of orange juice.
"Don't you got any milk, Betty Crocker?"
"Don't you think you should take what you can get?" She wants to say a lot. Like fuck YOU, James and fuck ME, James and you haven't changed and I can't go back there and why isn't it ever your voice on the phone telling me to go back. "This is my dream, Sawyer."
He picks up his glass and takes a big noisy gulp, eyes crinkled at her over his glass, and he puts it down only to lick his lips and wipe the back of his hand over his mouth all for her benefit. "Guess I should feel lucky just to get a chance like this, huh, Freckles? What with you and the Doc bein' there on the outside now. Maybe that jump into the ocean racked me up some points."
She presses her lips together and turns away from him to put the juice back in the fridge, to get her eyes off him, but she feels one of the strings of her apron being captured and tugged from behind.
"Domestic looks good on you, Freckles."
The apron slumps loosely around her t-shirt and jeans. She won't let him get a reaction. She won't.
"Maybe not as good as chain gang," he goes on, head tilted in mock thoughtfulness so the edges of his hair touch the shoulder of his shirt. "But I can live with this just fine."
"Thanks," she answers dryly, rolling her eyes as she closes the refrigerator again, and she goes ahead and pulls the apron off only to find herself suddenly getting assistance from two rough hands.
He's too close to her when she turns around; she can feel his warmth and smell his cologne -- oh, he wears it no matter what he says -- and his taste is all memory but still there on the tip of her tongue in vivid defiance of distance and time.
The curve of his mouth is predatory, but his eyes are softer, half-teasing, half-earnest. "We could've been like this."
Her heart's magnetic; it rises up her throat and into her lips and expects to be kissed. "I'm not so sure."
If there's a kiss, it won't be her doing. Not this time.
The teasing fades from his face, and without it he's just like her: all want, all uncertain expectation. His mouth hovers an electric half-inch from hers, waiting. Heat rises in her face; goosebumps rise on her skin; nipples rise under the cotton of her shirt, the cups of her bra.
"I can't forget you, you can't forget me," he tells her, like it's a warning, like it's a promise, like it's a fucking magic spell, and just as she's thinking she'll shove him away if he doesn't kiss her, he lowers his mouth to hers.
Open-mouthed, and his tongue snakes over her bottom lip and she wants more. His hands on her hips burn as if they could brand her as he lifts her onto the countertop.
She drops the apron to the floor. Their shirts join it soon enough, and she kisses him until her mouth itches from the scruff of his cheeks and chin, until he's rigid and taut under the denim he has on, until his hands start shucking her jeans down off her in their hurry to see how slick she's gotten.
More than wet enough, she wakes up aching.
The warm ache low in her pelvis will only take a long shower to set right. The one in her heart will need some work.
Those dreams where you know you're dreaming? Where you can think about what reality is like versus what the dream shows you? She's had them more since leaving the island than she has in her whole life.
They're on the island, all of them, and living in those cabins like the whole thing was a planned vacation rather than plane crash. Hurley rooms with Sayid, Claire and Charlie take care of Aaron in their own little house. Sun is with Jin and seems happy. Jack looks tired, but he's lost that hollow look she's started seeing in his eyes.
Sawyer's sitting at her table, a hot plate of scrambled eggs and crunchy bacon and buttered toast in front of him, and she's pouring him a glass of orange juice.
"Don't you got any milk, Betty Crocker?"
"Don't you think you should take what you can get?" She wants to say a lot. Like fuck YOU, James and fuck ME, James and you haven't changed and I can't go back there and why isn't it ever your voice on the phone telling me to go back. "This is my dream, Sawyer."
He picks up his glass and takes a big noisy gulp, eyes crinkled at her over his glass, and he puts it down only to lick his lips and wipe the back of his hand over his mouth all for her benefit. "Guess I should feel lucky just to get a chance like this, huh, Freckles? What with you and the Doc bein' there on the outside now. Maybe that jump into the ocean racked me up some points."
She presses her lips together and turns away from him to put the juice back in the fridge, to get her eyes off him, but she feels one of the strings of her apron being captured and tugged from behind.
"Domestic looks good on you, Freckles."
The apron slumps loosely around her t-shirt and jeans. She won't let him get a reaction. She won't.
"Maybe not as good as chain gang," he goes on, head tilted in mock thoughtfulness so the edges of his hair touch the shoulder of his shirt. "But I can live with this just fine."
"Thanks," she answers dryly, rolling her eyes as she closes the refrigerator again, and she goes ahead and pulls the apron off only to find herself suddenly getting assistance from two rough hands.
He's too close to her when she turns around; she can feel his warmth and smell his cologne -- oh, he wears it no matter what he says -- and his taste is all memory but still there on the tip of her tongue in vivid defiance of distance and time.
The curve of his mouth is predatory, but his eyes are softer, half-teasing, half-earnest. "We could've been like this."
Her heart's magnetic; it rises up her throat and into her lips and expects to be kissed. "I'm not so sure."
If there's a kiss, it won't be her doing. Not this time.
The teasing fades from his face, and without it he's just like her: all want, all uncertain expectation. His mouth hovers an electric half-inch from hers, waiting. Heat rises in her face; goosebumps rise on her skin; nipples rise under the cotton of her shirt, the cups of her bra.
"I can't forget you, you can't forget me," he tells her, like it's a warning, like it's a promise, like it's a fucking magic spell, and just as she's thinking she'll shove him away if he doesn't kiss her, he lowers his mouth to hers.
Open-mouthed, and his tongue snakes over her bottom lip and she wants more. His hands on her hips burn as if they could brand her as he lifts her onto the countertop.
She drops the apron to the floor. Their shirts join it soon enough, and she kisses him until her mouth itches from the scruff of his cheeks and chin, until he's rigid and taut under the denim he has on, until his hands start shucking her jeans down off her in their hurry to see how slick she's gotten.
More than wet enough, she wakes up aching.
The warm ache low in her pelvis will only take a long shower to set right. The one in her heart will need some work.