Fic: Fated by Lexie
Title: Fated
Author: lexie_b
Fandoms: :buries face in hands: Lost/Sailor Moon
Genre: Drama
Characters: Sawyer, Setsuna (Sailor Pluto)
Spoilers: Sailor Moon, S1 of Lost
Warnings: Completely random crossover.
Notes: I know. Most embarrassing crossover ever. I got a plot bunny that wouldn't go away. In reality, there's another twelve pages to this fic, but I felt this was the best part. For anyone not familiar with SM, Setsuna/Sailor Pluto controls time and space, and can see into the future, and along with Neptune and Uranus, guard the outer solar system. In Season 3, Saturn is revealed to have healing capabilities.
Summary: He meets her in a bar. He meets most people in bars.
Disclaimer: Sailor Moon belongs to Naoko Takeuchi and Lost belongs to J.J Abrams. I'm just messing around and making no profit.
He meets her in a bar. He meets most people in bars.
This time, it’s different. He’s just come from Indiana, from the arm of a pretty heiress. There’s money in his pocket, and he’s already states away, and she’s probably still dreaming of diamond rings and lavish weddings.
So, with the money in his pocket, this bar was far nicer than the usual filthy holes he frequented. It was clean, well-lit, the cigarette machine worked and a colour television played in the background. The patrons weren’t slumped on the floor, in puddles of warm liquor. It wasn’t the nicest joint he’d ever been in to, but it sure as hell was a step up from the norm.
She still didn’t look like someone who belonged in this bar. She was sitting at the end of the bar, with a book in one hand, and a drink beside her elbow. Her hair was startling - a sheet of dark green that had to reach the back of her knees when she was standing.
Sawyer watched her, calmly sitting on the stool like some sort of royalty, seemingly absorbed in her book; something about her apparent state of complete concentration seemed false.
It was when she finally looked up at him, with a small smile on her face - not unfriendly, but not welcoming either - he noticed that her eyes were red.
“A fuckin’ Christmas tree,” he muttered to himself, turning back to his third drink.
It was almost half an hour before she came over, her bag over one shoulder.
“Hello.” Her voice was a shock, young and very feminine. Something about her - maybe her creepy eyes - made him think she was older than she looked.
She sits in the seat opposite him, straight backed, like some sort of princess.
“You want something, Red?” He asks, pulling a cigarette from his back pocket.
“Red?” Her voice has an exotic lilt to it, an accent he can’t identify.
“Don’t see many girls sporting red contact lenses these days,” he offers. “You come over here for a reason?”
She just smiles at him, with that strange small smile. “I’m just waiting for someone - they’re running late.”
There aren’t any clocks in the bar - a sly move on the part of the owners - and she doesn’t wear a watch, only a delicate silver and black bead bracelet that looks goddamned expensive.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says, puffing on his cigarette.
“I never liked that saying very much.” The bartender appears at the table, leaving him another beer - in a bottle, this time - and another of whatever she was drinking. “It always seemed so…” Her gaze darkened for a split second before she reached for her drink. “So disrespectful.”
“You aren’t from around here.” Cliché, he knows. Three and a half beers into him, he’s entitled to a cliché or two.
“No, I’m not.” She pauses and nods at him. “I’m Setsuna Meioh.”
“Sawyer.”
She raises an eyebrow - an unnerving expression - but says nothing. “And where have you come from?”
“Indiana,” he replies, without hesitation, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s cursing and carrying on, because he’s slipped up in his story. “You?”
“Here and there.”
“Where are you from?” He’s not even going to make an attempt at her strange sounding name right now, preferring to stub out his cigarette and reach for another one.
“The last place I was for any extended period of time was Tokyo.”
“That ain’t a Japanese accent, Su-Sest-…” He’s well versed in people with their own versions of the truth, and he’s known some pretty Japanese girls in his day.
“Setsuna. I like to travel.” She watches the ice cubes in her glass bob up and down. “I imagine the only place I haven’t been to is Australia.”
The silence is interrupted by a beeping noise and Setsuna reaches into her bag, pulling out a tiny, silver cell phone - an expensive looking cell phone, at that, and Sawyer wonders if this girl-woman-whatever the fuck she is shouldn’t have been written off so fast.
She doesn’t get up and walk away to answer it, like he’d expect her to, but stays seated. “Hello? ... I couldn’t use it… Michiru has the address, it’s very easy to find…” She pauses and laughs. “Very nice Ura-Haruka-chan. We’ll see.” She closes the phone without saying good bye and tucks it into her bag. “It seems my friends are about to arrive.”
“Where are you off to now?” he asks, watching her pull out some hair pins, grabbing a fistful of her long hair and winding it into a bun that sits on the top of her head.
“I’m sure Haruka and Michiru have somewhere in mind,” she says, sliding the pins in with practiced ease. “They’re very dedicated.”
They both hear a car horn blast outside and she smiles, gathering her things together. She leaves several folded bills on the table and he stands as she moves to leave, a belated sign of chivalry. The smile Setsuna offers him is far brighter than previous ones, and despite her god-damned strange coloring and creepy eyes, she’s beautiful.
She leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek, and leaves the bar.
When he wakes up in a cheap motel hours later, with the hang over from hell, his memory seems to want to tell him that her parting words were, “nice to meet you, James,” but that’s most likely the fault of the alcohol, he’s sure.
He sure as hell doesn’t expect to ever see her again, especially after he’s stranded on a god-damned island in the middle of nowhere. With so much time to sit on the sand and do nothing, he ponders some of the women he’s known - the ones he left crying, broken and confused; the ones he left without a backwards glance and the ones who trusted him implicitly, with trusting eyes and rose-coloured realities.
And then there’s a girl-woman wearing an enigmatic half smile, with scarlet eyes and long black-green hair whose answers are even vaguer than his. The one who might have used a name he sure as hell didn’t offer up.
Then he doesn’t think about much else expect getting the hell off of this island, of survival and people he’ll sure as hell never admit are his friends. There ain’t many chances for redemption in his little world, and he’s not sure he’s completely comfortable with the concept, but this is as close as he’ll get.
To be honest, he doesn’t really know if he sees her again, or if his mind likes to play tricks on him. A bullet wound in his arm, lying in a tent in the sun for three days, and medicated with whatever pills Jack’s found. And then she’s there, sitting beside him in her prim looking skirt and blouse, a book open in her lap, watching over him.
“Hello James.” Her voice is soft, and he realizes that there’s a scarlet coloured light flickering over them. A giant silver key hovers beside her, the red orb at the top lighting up the small tent.
“What are you doing here, Red?” he croaks. “I’m seeing things, aren’t I?”
She laughs and closes her book. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, James. Don’t move around too much.”
The sharp, burning sensation of his arm agrees with her advice. And she’s beside him, helping him sit up and offering him a cold glass - a glass - of water. Her hand is cool against his forehead and she smells of old books and some sort of floral perfume.
She helps him lie back down and he notices her shoes - leather high heels, with a detailed floral punch pattern.
“Red… Setsuna,” he manages as she settles beside him.
“Sleep, James,” she says, picking up her book. Questions flood his mind, but for some reason he obeys, closing his eyes and letting sleep swallow up her presence.
Setsuna stays by his side until she can feel the sun hovering just below the horizon. His fever has gone and, hopefully, the worst of the infection has passed. She doesn’t have the healing powers of Saturn, so there was little she could do short of altering the time line. There had always been something about the smooth talking Southern gentleman with sad eyes and a tragic past. She knows what it’s like to walk alone for a lifetime, to watch loved ones fall by their own hands.
She knows she cannot save him - or the other survivors - from the island. She cannot save anyone from their own demons or from the curse of misfortune. She’s used to walking away.
Setsuna kneels before him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and standing. She knows she won’t be able to resist watching over him, trying to lessen whatever burdens fate place upon him.
“In another lifetime, James,” Setsuna murmurs, transforming into Sailor Pluto and grasping the Time Staff.
As Jack pushes aside the tent flap to check on Sawyer, a glimmer of scarlet and black vanishes from the corner of the tent.
Author: lexie_b
Fandoms: :buries face in hands: Lost/Sailor Moon
Genre: Drama
Characters: Sawyer, Setsuna (Sailor Pluto)
Spoilers: Sailor Moon, S1 of Lost
Warnings: Completely random crossover.
Notes: I know. Most embarrassing crossover ever. I got a plot bunny that wouldn't go away. In reality, there's another twelve pages to this fic, but I felt this was the best part. For anyone not familiar with SM, Setsuna/Sailor Pluto controls time and space, and can see into the future, and along with Neptune and Uranus, guard the outer solar system. In Season 3, Saturn is revealed to have healing capabilities.
Summary: He meets her in a bar. He meets most people in bars.
Disclaimer: Sailor Moon belongs to Naoko Takeuchi and Lost belongs to J.J Abrams. I'm just messing around and making no profit.
He meets her in a bar. He meets most people in bars.
This time, it’s different. He’s just come from Indiana, from the arm of a pretty heiress. There’s money in his pocket, and he’s already states away, and she’s probably still dreaming of diamond rings and lavish weddings.
So, with the money in his pocket, this bar was far nicer than the usual filthy holes he frequented. It was clean, well-lit, the cigarette machine worked and a colour television played in the background. The patrons weren’t slumped on the floor, in puddles of warm liquor. It wasn’t the nicest joint he’d ever been in to, but it sure as hell was a step up from the norm.
She still didn’t look like someone who belonged in this bar. She was sitting at the end of the bar, with a book in one hand, and a drink beside her elbow. Her hair was startling - a sheet of dark green that had to reach the back of her knees when she was standing.
Sawyer watched her, calmly sitting on the stool like some sort of royalty, seemingly absorbed in her book; something about her apparent state of complete concentration seemed false.
It was when she finally looked up at him, with a small smile on her face - not unfriendly, but not welcoming either - he noticed that her eyes were red.
“A fuckin’ Christmas tree,” he muttered to himself, turning back to his third drink.
It was almost half an hour before she came over, her bag over one shoulder.
“Hello.” Her voice was a shock, young and very feminine. Something about her - maybe her creepy eyes - made him think she was older than she looked.
She sits in the seat opposite him, straight backed, like some sort of princess.
“You want something, Red?” He asks, pulling a cigarette from his back pocket.
“Red?” Her voice has an exotic lilt to it, an accent he can’t identify.
“Don’t see many girls sporting red contact lenses these days,” he offers. “You come over here for a reason?”
She just smiles at him, with that strange small smile. “I’m just waiting for someone - they’re running late.”
There aren’t any clocks in the bar - a sly move on the part of the owners - and she doesn’t wear a watch, only a delicate silver and black bead bracelet that looks goddamned expensive.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says, puffing on his cigarette.
“I never liked that saying very much.” The bartender appears at the table, leaving him another beer - in a bottle, this time - and another of whatever she was drinking. “It always seemed so…” Her gaze darkened for a split second before she reached for her drink. “So disrespectful.”
“You aren’t from around here.” Cliché, he knows. Three and a half beers into him, he’s entitled to a cliché or two.
“No, I’m not.” She pauses and nods at him. “I’m Setsuna Meioh.”
“Sawyer.”
She raises an eyebrow - an unnerving expression - but says nothing. “And where have you come from?”
“Indiana,” he replies, without hesitation, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s cursing and carrying on, because he’s slipped up in his story. “You?”
“Here and there.”
“Where are you from?” He’s not even going to make an attempt at her strange sounding name right now, preferring to stub out his cigarette and reach for another one.
“The last place I was for any extended period of time was Tokyo.”
“That ain’t a Japanese accent, Su-Sest-…” He’s well versed in people with their own versions of the truth, and he’s known some pretty Japanese girls in his day.
“Setsuna. I like to travel.” She watches the ice cubes in her glass bob up and down. “I imagine the only place I haven’t been to is Australia.”
The silence is interrupted by a beeping noise and Setsuna reaches into her bag, pulling out a tiny, silver cell phone - an expensive looking cell phone, at that, and Sawyer wonders if this girl-woman-whatever the fuck she is shouldn’t have been written off so fast.
She doesn’t get up and walk away to answer it, like he’d expect her to, but stays seated. “Hello? ... I couldn’t use it… Michiru has the address, it’s very easy to find…” She pauses and laughs. “Very nice Ura-Haruka-chan. We’ll see.” She closes the phone without saying good bye and tucks it into her bag. “It seems my friends are about to arrive.”
“Where are you off to now?” he asks, watching her pull out some hair pins, grabbing a fistful of her long hair and winding it into a bun that sits on the top of her head.
“I’m sure Haruka and Michiru have somewhere in mind,” she says, sliding the pins in with practiced ease. “They’re very dedicated.”
They both hear a car horn blast outside and she smiles, gathering her things together. She leaves several folded bills on the table and he stands as she moves to leave, a belated sign of chivalry. The smile Setsuna offers him is far brighter than previous ones, and despite her god-damned strange coloring and creepy eyes, she’s beautiful.
She leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek, and leaves the bar.
When he wakes up in a cheap motel hours later, with the hang over from hell, his memory seems to want to tell him that her parting words were, “nice to meet you, James,” but that’s most likely the fault of the alcohol, he’s sure.
He sure as hell doesn’t expect to ever see her again, especially after he’s stranded on a god-damned island in the middle of nowhere. With so much time to sit on the sand and do nothing, he ponders some of the women he’s known - the ones he left crying, broken and confused; the ones he left without a backwards glance and the ones who trusted him implicitly, with trusting eyes and rose-coloured realities.
And then there’s a girl-woman wearing an enigmatic half smile, with scarlet eyes and long black-green hair whose answers are even vaguer than his. The one who might have used a name he sure as hell didn’t offer up.
Then he doesn’t think about much else expect getting the hell off of this island, of survival and people he’ll sure as hell never admit are his friends. There ain’t many chances for redemption in his little world, and he’s not sure he’s completely comfortable with the concept, but this is as close as he’ll get.
To be honest, he doesn’t really know if he sees her again, or if his mind likes to play tricks on him. A bullet wound in his arm, lying in a tent in the sun for three days, and medicated with whatever pills Jack’s found. And then she’s there, sitting beside him in her prim looking skirt and blouse, a book open in her lap, watching over him.
“Hello James.” Her voice is soft, and he realizes that there’s a scarlet coloured light flickering over them. A giant silver key hovers beside her, the red orb at the top lighting up the small tent.
“What are you doing here, Red?” he croaks. “I’m seeing things, aren’t I?”
She laughs and closes her book. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, James. Don’t move around too much.”
The sharp, burning sensation of his arm agrees with her advice. And she’s beside him, helping him sit up and offering him a cold glass - a glass - of water. Her hand is cool against his forehead and she smells of old books and some sort of floral perfume.
She helps him lie back down and he notices her shoes - leather high heels, with a detailed floral punch pattern.
“Red… Setsuna,” he manages as she settles beside him.
“Sleep, James,” she says, picking up her book. Questions flood his mind, but for some reason he obeys, closing his eyes and letting sleep swallow up her presence.
Setsuna stays by his side until she can feel the sun hovering just below the horizon. His fever has gone and, hopefully, the worst of the infection has passed. She doesn’t have the healing powers of Saturn, so there was little she could do short of altering the time line. There had always been something about the smooth talking Southern gentleman with sad eyes and a tragic past. She knows what it’s like to walk alone for a lifetime, to watch loved ones fall by their own hands.
She knows she cannot save him - or the other survivors - from the island. She cannot save anyone from their own demons or from the curse of misfortune. She’s used to walking away.
Setsuna kneels before him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and standing. She knows she won’t be able to resist watching over him, trying to lessen whatever burdens fate place upon him.
“In another lifetime, James,” Setsuna murmurs, transforming into Sailor Pluto and grasping the Time Staff.
As Jack pushes aside the tent flap to check on Sawyer, a glimmer of scarlet and black vanishes from the corner of the tent.