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Title: Rain, Rain Go Away (All The World Is Waiting For The Sun)
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer/Claire (sort of implied), mentions of Charlie/Claire.
Word Count: 813
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Written for
super_kc , though I apologize how far this differs from what you wanted.
Summary: He remembers the rain because he remembers the way Claire stayed out in it.
The day they bury Charlie it’s pouring down rain. Like one of those storms that passes through almost every other day here, except this one just won’t quit.
It’s two days after his body washed up on shore, a month after the fact, and there had been some hesitance about whether or not to bury him. They were on the move. They were pressed for time. But they couldn’t keep the body with them; he deserved a funeral, a grave, a marker saying that yes, he had existed, he had tried to save them. Redemption for the VH1-has-been.
He remembers the rain because he remembers the way Claire stayed out in it, in front of the grave. She ignored Kate’s attempts to coax her out of the rain, to take shelter, just the same way as she ignored Jack’s, and by the time Sawyer decided to do something she was a crying, shivering mess.
“Come on, Mamacita, you’re not going to do anyone any good by catching a cold.” He reaches out for her arm, gets a hold of her sweater before she yanks her arm out of his grasp, with that kind of superhuman strength that comes along with adrenaline, with pain and grieving and hatred at the world, at life.
“Leave me alone!” It sounds like a scream, and he can’t tell if it’s meant that way or if she’s just yelling over the rain. Her voice drops, a whisper, nearly inaudible. “Just leave me alone.”
Which means he tried. Which means if he goes back and says screw this, at least he can say he did his part. It won’t be on him and, really, that’s what the whole point was right?
That’s what it should be.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Apparently, he’s going to see this through.
“Why not? It’s what you’re good at right? Not caring.” Her voice is rising again, and he’s fairly sure the others can hear them; they’re not all that far away. And if she thinks telling him all these things he knows, that he’s already been told, is going to cut him, she’s very wrong.
This is not going to be about him. For once. “Why are you so dead set on standing here? This ain’t no Romeo and Juliet love story.”
“We can’t just leave him here.”
“Can’t bring him with us either.”
She shakes her head, “It’s not right to just...leave him. He doesn’t deserve to be stuck on this island.”
“And you think the rest of us do?”
“We’re going to get off of this island eventually.”
He fights the urge to laugh at that notion. After all the failed rescue attempts, the false hopes, he’ll believe it when he sees it. “Aren’t we the optimistic one.”
“I’m not leaving.” Even as she makes her statement, her stand, she crosses her arms over her chest, probably cold and not willing to admit it.
“Yes, you are.” He tells her, because she will, she will realize this is futile, and if she doesn’t then he isn’t above moving her himself. She’ll thank him later, in time.
A time that certainly isn’t now.
“Don’t play the hero.” She says, a warning tone in her shaking voice.
“I think you’ve got me and the Doc confused.” He reaches for her again, gently this time, and this time she doesn’t pull back. She also doesn’t react to his touch. “Now come on.”
“I don’t want people to forget about him.” He’s fairly sure she has stopped hearing him, because she’s no longer replying to what he’s saying. She’s on her own tangent. “What he did. Who he was. I don’t want people to forget.”
“Are you going to forget?”
“No.”
“Then that’s what matters right. That’s what would’ve mattered to him.”
Now she leans into his touch, ever so slightly, but almost instinctually, a sure sign that he’s getting to her, as she says, “You think so?”
Sawyer shrugs, can’t believe he’s having this conversation, that he’s doing this. He just isn’t good at this. Or so he tells himself. “He never seemed to care too much about anyone but you and that kid of yours. I guess you were pretty much his family. Not much else matters at the end of the day.”
Some of that must make sense to her, because she finds his hand, and seconds later her head finds his chest, as she turns to lean into him, shaking, and trying, trying not to cry, and he can’t tell her tears from the rain as it soaks into his shirt. He’s not good at this, but he puts a hand up to rest on her back, holds her there, and he thinks it might be enough; it must be, because he’s the only one she’s given an inch to.
And that has to mean he’s doing something right.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer/Claire (sort of implied), mentions of Charlie/Claire.
Word Count: 813
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Written for
super_kc , though I apologize how far this differs from what you wanted.
Summary: He remembers the rain because he remembers the way Claire stayed out in it.
The day they bury Charlie it’s pouring down rain. Like one of those storms that passes through almost every other day here, except this one just won’t quit.
It’s two days after his body washed up on shore, a month after the fact, and there had been some hesitance about whether or not to bury him. They were on the move. They were pressed for time. But they couldn’t keep the body with them; he deserved a funeral, a grave, a marker saying that yes, he had existed, he had tried to save them. Redemption for the VH1-has-been.
He remembers the rain because he remembers the way Claire stayed out in it, in front of the grave. She ignored Kate’s attempts to coax her out of the rain, to take shelter, just the same way as she ignored Jack’s, and by the time Sawyer decided to do something she was a crying, shivering mess.
“Come on, Mamacita, you’re not going to do anyone any good by catching a cold.” He reaches out for her arm, gets a hold of her sweater before she yanks her arm out of his grasp, with that kind of superhuman strength that comes along with adrenaline, with pain and grieving and hatred at the world, at life.
“Leave me alone!” It sounds like a scream, and he can’t tell if it’s meant that way or if she’s just yelling over the rain. Her voice drops, a whisper, nearly inaudible. “Just leave me alone.”
Which means he tried. Which means if he goes back and says screw this, at least he can say he did his part. It won’t be on him and, really, that’s what the whole point was right?
That’s what it should be.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Apparently, he’s going to see this through.
“Why not? It’s what you’re good at right? Not caring.” Her voice is rising again, and he’s fairly sure the others can hear them; they’re not all that far away. And if she thinks telling him all these things he knows, that he’s already been told, is going to cut him, she’s very wrong.
This is not going to be about him. For once. “Why are you so dead set on standing here? This ain’t no Romeo and Juliet love story.”
“We can’t just leave him here.”
“Can’t bring him with us either.”
She shakes her head, “It’s not right to just...leave him. He doesn’t deserve to be stuck on this island.”
“And you think the rest of us do?”
“We’re going to get off of this island eventually.”
He fights the urge to laugh at that notion. After all the failed rescue attempts, the false hopes, he’ll believe it when he sees it. “Aren’t we the optimistic one.”
“I’m not leaving.” Even as she makes her statement, her stand, she crosses her arms over her chest, probably cold and not willing to admit it.
“Yes, you are.” He tells her, because she will, she will realize this is futile, and if she doesn’t then he isn’t above moving her himself. She’ll thank him later, in time.
A time that certainly isn’t now.
“Don’t play the hero.” She says, a warning tone in her shaking voice.
“I think you’ve got me and the Doc confused.” He reaches for her again, gently this time, and this time she doesn’t pull back. She also doesn’t react to his touch. “Now come on.”
“I don’t want people to forget about him.” He’s fairly sure she has stopped hearing him, because she’s no longer replying to what he’s saying. She’s on her own tangent. “What he did. Who he was. I don’t want people to forget.”
“Are you going to forget?”
“No.”
“Then that’s what matters right. That’s what would’ve mattered to him.”
Now she leans into his touch, ever so slightly, but almost instinctually, a sure sign that he’s getting to her, as she says, “You think so?”
Sawyer shrugs, can’t believe he’s having this conversation, that he’s doing this. He just isn’t good at this. Or so he tells himself. “He never seemed to care too much about anyone but you and that kid of yours. I guess you were pretty much his family. Not much else matters at the end of the day.”
Some of that must make sense to her, because she finds his hand, and seconds later her head finds his chest, as she turns to lean into him, shaking, and trying, trying not to cry, and he can’t tell her tears from the rain as it soaks into his shirt. He’s not good at this, but he puts a hand up to rest on her back, holds her there, and he thinks it might be enough; it must be, because he’s the only one she’s given an inch to.
And that has to mean he’s doing something right.