(no subject)
Title: Dust In The Wind
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Claire/Sawyer
Word Count: 742
Rating: PG
Prompt: For
pellamerethiel
Summary: When Claire was a child she wanted to be an artist.
There’s something to be said about a dreamless existence.
When Claire was a child she wanted to be an artist. Her mother always scolded her for not coloring within the lines, but Claire only saw it as thinking out of the box. She saw it as being unique.
When Claire was a teenager, when she decided that Goth was her version of rebellion, she worked in a tattoo parlor. She was too young and untrained to do the tattoos, so she stuck to piercing guns and cotton swabs and kept her eye on the pretty tattoo artist on the other side of the parlor. She liked the intensity of her patterns, the bright colors, the designs Claire could never have thought up.
Then her mom got in a car crash, and she found work at the fish and fry, got pregnant and landed on an island.
Landed on an island without paper and watercolors, sketch pads and pastels. She had her journal though and when she wasn’t writing she was drawing. But that ran out too eventually, just like everything else.
A week or two after Kate and Jack and the others got into a helicopter and flew off, taking Aaron, taking their fate, their rescue, into their hands, she decides to clean house. She searches through closets that are full of foreign things, other people’s things, and when a pad of paper and pencils practically fall into her hands she can’t help but smile.
She draws that night. She draws landscapes, the only thing that seems to be a constant no matter where she is. The sky and the earth beneath her feet will never change and she takes comfort in that since there’s little else she can.
Claire keeps them in her room, on the walls, something to decorate the blank white walls, something to remind her of home and easier times. She keeps them there and she starts to forget, they start to blend in to the scenery, and she forgets to close the door when Sawyer comes by.
“These yours?” He stands in her room and she doesn’t understand what he’s talking about until her eyes register the familiar blues and greens and reds, and she gives a wordless nod. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.
“I don’t sleep.” She shrugs. Instead she lies in a bed with the sheets thrown off in the sweltering heat and listens for a baby’s cry that never comes.
He takes out his glasses, and he carefully traces outlines with his fingertip and there’s no way Sawyer’s any type of art connoisseur but he likes vaguely impressed, until it clicks in his head what he’s doing and pulls back.
“What do you think?”
“Looks like an art museum.” He says, trying to be harsh and insulting, but she can see right through him. He likes them, he just won’t say that.
“I got sick of staring at white walls. This place needed a little color to it.” That’s not the whole of it and she doesn’t know why but she finds herself compelled to tell that tale too. “I always wanted to be an artist.”
Of course he states the obvious. “It’s a little late now.”
That’s the thing with Sawyer. He doesn’t think they’re going to get rescued. He doesn’t even want to get rescued. So there is no ‘when we go back home’ for him and there never has been. Everything about the world they knew before the crash is past tense. Everything is a day late and a dollar short and it’s an interesting perspective but she’s never been able to grasp it and she doesn’t think she wants to.
She can’t lose that hope. She can’t think about never seeing her son again. She can’t think that all that’s left for them is endless seas and blue skies and blank walls with images out of a book that begins ‘once upon a time’. That, while they certainly weren’t born here, they will live here and die here, and all that will be left of them is dust in the wind.
She can’t live without the drams of a better resolution to this story.
One day, weeks later, she finds an unused sketch pad shoved under her door and she smiles into the open air because he may have given up (rescue, dreams, all of it) but he knows enough to realize she never will.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Claire/Sawyer
Word Count: 742
Rating: PG
Prompt: For
pellamerethiel
Summary: When Claire was a child she wanted to be an artist.
There’s something to be said about a dreamless existence.
When Claire was a child she wanted to be an artist. Her mother always scolded her for not coloring within the lines, but Claire only saw it as thinking out of the box. She saw it as being unique.
When Claire was a teenager, when she decided that Goth was her version of rebellion, she worked in a tattoo parlor. She was too young and untrained to do the tattoos, so she stuck to piercing guns and cotton swabs and kept her eye on the pretty tattoo artist on the other side of the parlor. She liked the intensity of her patterns, the bright colors, the designs Claire could never have thought up.
Then her mom got in a car crash, and she found work at the fish and fry, got pregnant and landed on an island.
Landed on an island without paper and watercolors, sketch pads and pastels. She had her journal though and when she wasn’t writing she was drawing. But that ran out too eventually, just like everything else.
A week or two after Kate and Jack and the others got into a helicopter and flew off, taking Aaron, taking their fate, their rescue, into their hands, she decides to clean house. She searches through closets that are full of foreign things, other people’s things, and when a pad of paper and pencils practically fall into her hands she can’t help but smile.
She draws that night. She draws landscapes, the only thing that seems to be a constant no matter where she is. The sky and the earth beneath her feet will never change and she takes comfort in that since there’s little else she can.
Claire keeps them in her room, on the walls, something to decorate the blank white walls, something to remind her of home and easier times. She keeps them there and she starts to forget, they start to blend in to the scenery, and she forgets to close the door when Sawyer comes by.
“These yours?” He stands in her room and she doesn’t understand what he’s talking about until her eyes register the familiar blues and greens and reds, and she gives a wordless nod. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.
“I don’t sleep.” She shrugs. Instead she lies in a bed with the sheets thrown off in the sweltering heat and listens for a baby’s cry that never comes.
He takes out his glasses, and he carefully traces outlines with his fingertip and there’s no way Sawyer’s any type of art connoisseur but he likes vaguely impressed, until it clicks in his head what he’s doing and pulls back.
“What do you think?”
“Looks like an art museum.” He says, trying to be harsh and insulting, but she can see right through him. He likes them, he just won’t say that.
“I got sick of staring at white walls. This place needed a little color to it.” That’s not the whole of it and she doesn’t know why but she finds herself compelled to tell that tale too. “I always wanted to be an artist.”
Of course he states the obvious. “It’s a little late now.”
That’s the thing with Sawyer. He doesn’t think they’re going to get rescued. He doesn’t even want to get rescued. So there is no ‘when we go back home’ for him and there never has been. Everything about the world they knew before the crash is past tense. Everything is a day late and a dollar short and it’s an interesting perspective but she’s never been able to grasp it and she doesn’t think she wants to.
She can’t lose that hope. She can’t think about never seeing her son again. She can’t think that all that’s left for them is endless seas and blue skies and blank walls with images out of a book that begins ‘once upon a time’. That, while they certainly weren’t born here, they will live here and die here, and all that will be left of them is dust in the wind.
She can’t live without the drams of a better resolution to this story.
One day, weeks later, she finds an unused sketch pad shoved under her door and she smiles into the open air because he may have given up (rescue, dreams, all of it) but he knows enough to realize she never will.