it's not you
Title: it's not you
Summary: A love story in three parts.
Pairing: Kate/Sayid
Rating: PG
Notes: Very AU.
o1.
He hates cities.
The smoke and noise. It's all crowds and cellphones. His finger brushes over the one in his pocket, reminding himself that he, too, has had to buy into all this. The only difference is no one calls him. And he likes it that way. Silence suits him. An ill fit, but still. It has always been his way.
Her face on the subway is enough to change things.
It's only a second. Their eyes meet between the glass and he's so distracted, he doesn't get on the tram. Running after it would be stupid and pointless, so he waits, hoping the next time he gets on, he'll see her.
For three months, he takes that tram, remembering those letters and that route, going the most round-about ways to his apartment, to work, to get some bad Chinese food. Anything and anywhere just to see her again. In September, the leaves change and he buys a scarf. That day, she's sitting at the end, almost like she's waiting for him. And maybe she is.
That's a nice scarf, she says quietly, leaning forward to touch the material. He thanks her. Now that they're together, his mouth is dry, tongue thick with words he should be saying. Suddenly, she sits next to him, this smile on her face, brown curls brushing his shoulder. I'm Kate.
Sayid. He likes the way her eyes wrinkle at the edges. That is the first thing he makes note of.
The rest comes naturally with time.
o2.
Sayid gets used to her long, tan legs slung over the edge of his sofa as she does the crossword. He gets used to her using his toothbrush, or stealing his deodorant. Pancakes for dinner becomes a weekly routine and each Thursday she sucks down a grape slushie before going for a long run. All these things add up and when he asks her to move in with him, it's easy.
She sheds something awful, leaving long brown strands of hair across his pillow. And she smells like strawberries, or something like it.
Does my lotion bother you? she asks some nights, sitting up in bed and rubbing it over her calves.
To tease him, naturally.
I can't stand it, he says, and tosses it across the room before turning out the lights and running his lips over her legs.
In the mornings she gets up and puts on her makeup, then takes a cold shower so it doesn't run. He doesn't understand her. Women have always been alien to him, confusing and alluring. They act in their own language, communicate so subtly. Quick flicks of the wrist, a soft change in speech patterns.
When they fight, she has a way of making him feel like it was all petty in the first place. And it probably was.
The first time he says I love you, she grins.
I've been waiting for that, stupid.
o3.
Kate stands in front of the full length mirror, watching the ends of the dress brush her heels. It's a perfect fit, the saleswoman says, tears in her eyes. She thanks her and buys the dress. It feels right on her, and it feels right inside. For once, she feels perfect.
She knows she should be doing this with her mother or someone else. Every dress store she walks into reminds her that she's alone without Sayid. That getting married will only bring them together more.
Which terrifies her. She's never been tied down before.
That night, she packs a bag and goes to the bus station, that familiar old cap over her hair. Behind her, he's standing, hands pressed tight to the steel of the bench she's sitting on. You left the puzzle on the table, he says. You never go anywhere without it.
Guess I gave myself away. He nods, taking a seat next to her. I love you, you know that? Another nod. Typical Sayid. I've never been so...
Trapped? he finishes. She shrugs. As I recall, no one forced you into accepting my proposal.
You got down on one knee. What was I supposed to do?
You saying 'no' would not have been the end of me, Kate. Or us, for that matter. We don't have to get married. But she wants to marry him. She wants to spend the rest of her life waking up with him next to her. She wants to have five kids and name this all after stars and French women. Wiping her cheeks, she leans against him. Let's go home.
Summary: A love story in three parts.
Pairing: Kate/Sayid
Rating: PG
Notes: Very AU.
o1.
He hates cities.
The smoke and noise. It's all crowds and cellphones. His finger brushes over the one in his pocket, reminding himself that he, too, has had to buy into all this. The only difference is no one calls him. And he likes it that way. Silence suits him. An ill fit, but still. It has always been his way.
Her face on the subway is enough to change things.
It's only a second. Their eyes meet between the glass and he's so distracted, he doesn't get on the tram. Running after it would be stupid and pointless, so he waits, hoping the next time he gets on, he'll see her.
For three months, he takes that tram, remembering those letters and that route, going the most round-about ways to his apartment, to work, to get some bad Chinese food. Anything and anywhere just to see her again. In September, the leaves change and he buys a scarf. That day, she's sitting at the end, almost like she's waiting for him. And maybe she is.
That's a nice scarf, she says quietly, leaning forward to touch the material. He thanks her. Now that they're together, his mouth is dry, tongue thick with words he should be saying. Suddenly, she sits next to him, this smile on her face, brown curls brushing his shoulder. I'm Kate.
Sayid. He likes the way her eyes wrinkle at the edges. That is the first thing he makes note of.
The rest comes naturally with time.
o2.
Sayid gets used to her long, tan legs slung over the edge of his sofa as she does the crossword. He gets used to her using his toothbrush, or stealing his deodorant. Pancakes for dinner becomes a weekly routine and each Thursday she sucks down a grape slushie before going for a long run. All these things add up and when he asks her to move in with him, it's easy.
She sheds something awful, leaving long brown strands of hair across his pillow. And she smells like strawberries, or something like it.
Does my lotion bother you? she asks some nights, sitting up in bed and rubbing it over her calves.
To tease him, naturally.
I can't stand it, he says, and tosses it across the room before turning out the lights and running his lips over her legs.
In the mornings she gets up and puts on her makeup, then takes a cold shower so it doesn't run. He doesn't understand her. Women have always been alien to him, confusing and alluring. They act in their own language, communicate so subtly. Quick flicks of the wrist, a soft change in speech patterns.
When they fight, she has a way of making him feel like it was all petty in the first place. And it probably was.
The first time he says I love you, she grins.
I've been waiting for that, stupid.
o3.
Kate stands in front of the full length mirror, watching the ends of the dress brush her heels. It's a perfect fit, the saleswoman says, tears in her eyes. She thanks her and buys the dress. It feels right on her, and it feels right inside. For once, she feels perfect.
She knows she should be doing this with her mother or someone else. Every dress store she walks into reminds her that she's alone without Sayid. That getting married will only bring them together more.
Which terrifies her. She's never been tied down before.
That night, she packs a bag and goes to the bus station, that familiar old cap over her hair. Behind her, he's standing, hands pressed tight to the steel of the bench she's sitting on. You left the puzzle on the table, he says. You never go anywhere without it.
Guess I gave myself away. He nods, taking a seat next to her. I love you, you know that? Another nod. Typical Sayid. I've never been so...
Trapped? he finishes. She shrugs. As I recall, no one forced you into accepting my proposal.
You got down on one knee. What was I supposed to do?
You saying 'no' would not have been the end of me, Kate. Or us, for that matter. We don't have to get married. But she wants to marry him. She wants to spend the rest of her life waking up with him next to her. She wants to have five kids and name this all after stars and French women. Wiping her cheeks, she leans against him. Let's go home.