Act of Contrition
Title: Act of Contrition
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: She'll have a bruise. As if the ghost-feeling of his fingers pressing into her isn't enough already.
Spoilers: The Brig
Notes: Drabble written for crickets' impromptu multi-fandom (im)promptathon. Prompt: Kate/Sawyer, gunpowder. Also used for un_love_you #15: this is my desperation in action.
He comes back through the jungle, limping on bare and bloodied feet. She goes to him with bandages and he wrenches her arm away from him with a snarl.
She'll have a bruise. As if the ghost-feeling of his fingers pressing into her isn't enough already.
He leaves again, soon after, under the guise of going hunting, hauling the old Winchester over his shoulder. And everyone knows he's a crap shot, but the dark in his eyes and the way he hoods his face with his too-long hair like he hasn't in weeks keeps them all quiet about it.
Kate thinks she hears shots, later, far out into the jungle, but she can't be sure. He comes back with nothing, anyway.
This time he comes to her. His feet are still bare, still mottled with dried blood and dirt, and it's like he doesn't even notice. He sits in the doorway of her tent and disassembles the gun, begins methodically cleaning it. (It's something she could do in her sleep, too. Her father taught her well.)
When he puts down the gun and grabs her this time, it's just as rough but he's pulling her to him. She follows, blindly, as he pushes them inside the tent. He turns his face away from her but he keeps touching hers, his fingers pressing at her mouth until she allows entrance.
She can taste the gunpowder on his skin. It burns her mouth and she lays them down.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: She'll have a bruise. As if the ghost-feeling of his fingers pressing into her isn't enough already.
Spoilers: The Brig
Notes: Drabble written for crickets' impromptu multi-fandom (im)promptathon. Prompt: Kate/Sawyer, gunpowder. Also used for un_love_you #15: this is my desperation in action.
He comes back through the jungle, limping on bare and bloodied feet. She goes to him with bandages and he wrenches her arm away from him with a snarl.
She'll have a bruise. As if the ghost-feeling of his fingers pressing into her isn't enough already.
He leaves again, soon after, under the guise of going hunting, hauling the old Winchester over his shoulder. And everyone knows he's a crap shot, but the dark in his eyes and the way he hoods his face with his too-long hair like he hasn't in weeks keeps them all quiet about it.
Kate thinks she hears shots, later, far out into the jungle, but she can't be sure. He comes back with nothing, anyway.
This time he comes to her. His feet are still bare, still mottled with dried blood and dirt, and it's like he doesn't even notice. He sits in the doorway of her tent and disassembles the gun, begins methodically cleaning it. (It's something she could do in her sleep, too. Her father taught her well.)
When he puts down the gun and grabs her this time, it's just as rough but he's pulling her to him. She follows, blindly, as he pushes them inside the tent. He turns his face away from her but he keeps touching hers, his fingers pressing at her mouth until she allows entrance.
She can taste the gunpowder on his skin. It burns her mouth and she lays them down.