Lost fic: Five Places Sawyer Almost Called Home
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Spoilers: Through season 2.
Summary: He'd lived in borrowed spaces his entire life.
Using for fanfic100 #78, Where. Inspired by the long-ago "Five Things" meme…this topic was suggested by astra2104.
Five Places Sawyer Almost Called Home
by eponine119
October 13, 2006
It should have been the place he took for granted. The place he grew up. The place he could always go back to -- that's what they said, right? Home is the place they always have to take you in. Sawyer's never really had a home.
He should have traded out the toys for more adult pursuits: Playboys stashed under the mattress, cigarettes smoked furtively near the open window, girls sneaking out just before dawn. Or maybe it would have been a different life altogether, one he can't quite imagine. Fingertips rough from steel guitar strings played only half in earnest, a car for his birthday, college applications filled out neatly at the desk and given to his mother to mail the next day.
He went back, only once, on a dark winter day. Freezing rain needled his skin as he made himself stand there, looking at the glow from inside. Had they carpeted over the stain in their son's room, did they ever think about what it represented, did they even know? His body ached with the angry urge to ring the bell and tell them. To ruin all their dreams.
Except he knew they wouldn't care, so he got in his car and drove, eyes on the house in the rearview mirror until it was out of sight.
…
After the first one, nineteen years old and scared, he ran.
He had a car -- the car that got him into so much trouble in the first place -- and he hit the gas, tires singing against the highway, taking him away as fast as he could go.
A couple of days later, he finally took a breath and realized he liked this. He liked the steering wheel beneath his fingers and the scenery speeding by. He liked the music on the radio, fading whenever he left civilization behind.
Nobody was looking over his shoulder, and he could do whatever he wanted. Every green sign was a possibility, a decision, freedom.
He was broke. Feeding quarters into rest stop vending machines to fuel his body with caffeine and chocolate. He slept in the backseat, staring up at the stars through the window and then pulling the plaid wool blanket over his head to block out the insistent sun as it rose.
One day he got hungry and chose one of those signs. He ate real food with the last dollars from his wallet, and met a girl, and what do you know, she had some money. Which he took, and ran again.
The road would never be the same. It was no longer freedom; it was just escape.
…
She had a nice house, and she let him live there with her. He'd been living out of suitcases so long he found himself watching her for clues. This is how real people act. They drink wine in front of the television on Wednesday nights, and on Sunday mornings they scrub the bathroom before settling down with French toast and the newspaper. She took it all for granted.
It got to him, like nowhere else ever had. Late at night when his vision blurred he could imagine staying. It wasn't just the house. It was her, just as warm and comfortable as the beige walls and Egyptian cotton on the bed. She knew what he did. She knew him. Laughed at him when he deserved it. Held him when he didn't even realize he needed to be.
She didn't know she wasn't really in love with him, but he did. She liked the excitement. She liked the lies, liked feeling like a bad girl after all the things her husband put her through. She liked that this could never end with a white dress, a ring on her finger, and a kid in a stroller.
Some days he thought about staying. Even if he wanted to, he had no choice. He had to take her money and leave her behind, because that's who he was. It's what he did. So he did it again.
…
It wasn't great, but it wasn't really like in the movies. Four cement walls, sure, but most of the inmates kept to themselves. He did the same. Hell, it was only forty-five days.
There were days his hands itched to fight, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry from not speaking. He wanted things, things that were only just out of reach. In his mind he diagramed how to get them, how he'd manipulate the other prisoners into giving him what he wanted. But he never acted on it.
He worked out, and he lay in his bunk and read. His muscles would ache from the exercise. When the ache subsided, he'd move to start it up again. When he finished a book, he'd turn back to the beginning, trying to make them last, looking for what he'd missed.
Most relaxing six weeks of his life.
…
Even years later, whenever it rained, he'd close his eyes and find himself back there. It never failed to make him smile.
His shelter was cocoon-like, it smelled vaguely of smoke, and it leaked. He'd lie with his eyes open, back against the hard metal shard of the fuselage, knowing his things were safe beneath his body.
When he couldn't sleep, he'd listen to the ocean and try to time his breathing to match. He'd wake up with his hand on his belly and his entire body relaxed like it had never been relaxed in a world with cars and rules and other people.
He'd lived in borrowed spaces his entire life. Motel rooms, rental apartments, foster care. His shelter was his, and no one else's. He'd built it with his own two hands. Maybe that was why he loved it.
End
Spoilers: Through season 2.
Summary: He'd lived in borrowed spaces his entire life.
Using for fanfic100 #78, Where. Inspired by the long-ago "Five Things" meme…this topic was suggested by astra2104.
Five Places Sawyer Almost Called Home
by eponine119
October 13, 2006
It should have been the place he took for granted. The place he grew up. The place he could always go back to -- that's what they said, right? Home is the place they always have to take you in. Sawyer's never really had a home.
He should have traded out the toys for more adult pursuits: Playboys stashed under the mattress, cigarettes smoked furtively near the open window, girls sneaking out just before dawn. Or maybe it would have been a different life altogether, one he can't quite imagine. Fingertips rough from steel guitar strings played only half in earnest, a car for his birthday, college applications filled out neatly at the desk and given to his mother to mail the next day.
He went back, only once, on a dark winter day. Freezing rain needled his skin as he made himself stand there, looking at the glow from inside. Had they carpeted over the stain in their son's room, did they ever think about what it represented, did they even know? His body ached with the angry urge to ring the bell and tell them. To ruin all their dreams.
Except he knew they wouldn't care, so he got in his car and drove, eyes on the house in the rearview mirror until it was out of sight.
…
After the first one, nineteen years old and scared, he ran.
He had a car -- the car that got him into so much trouble in the first place -- and he hit the gas, tires singing against the highway, taking him away as fast as he could go.
A couple of days later, he finally took a breath and realized he liked this. He liked the steering wheel beneath his fingers and the scenery speeding by. He liked the music on the radio, fading whenever he left civilization behind.
Nobody was looking over his shoulder, and he could do whatever he wanted. Every green sign was a possibility, a decision, freedom.
He was broke. Feeding quarters into rest stop vending machines to fuel his body with caffeine and chocolate. He slept in the backseat, staring up at the stars through the window and then pulling the plaid wool blanket over his head to block out the insistent sun as it rose.
One day he got hungry and chose one of those signs. He ate real food with the last dollars from his wallet, and met a girl, and what do you know, she had some money. Which he took, and ran again.
The road would never be the same. It was no longer freedom; it was just escape.
…
She had a nice house, and she let him live there with her. He'd been living out of suitcases so long he found himself watching her for clues. This is how real people act. They drink wine in front of the television on Wednesday nights, and on Sunday mornings they scrub the bathroom before settling down with French toast and the newspaper. She took it all for granted.
It got to him, like nowhere else ever had. Late at night when his vision blurred he could imagine staying. It wasn't just the house. It was her, just as warm and comfortable as the beige walls and Egyptian cotton on the bed. She knew what he did. She knew him. Laughed at him when he deserved it. Held him when he didn't even realize he needed to be.
She didn't know she wasn't really in love with him, but he did. She liked the excitement. She liked the lies, liked feeling like a bad girl after all the things her husband put her through. She liked that this could never end with a white dress, a ring on her finger, and a kid in a stroller.
Some days he thought about staying. Even if he wanted to, he had no choice. He had to take her money and leave her behind, because that's who he was. It's what he did. So he did it again.
…
It wasn't great, but it wasn't really like in the movies. Four cement walls, sure, but most of the inmates kept to themselves. He did the same. Hell, it was only forty-five days.
There were days his hands itched to fight, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry from not speaking. He wanted things, things that were only just out of reach. In his mind he diagramed how to get them, how he'd manipulate the other prisoners into giving him what he wanted. But he never acted on it.
He worked out, and he lay in his bunk and read. His muscles would ache from the exercise. When the ache subsided, he'd move to start it up again. When he finished a book, he'd turn back to the beginning, trying to make them last, looking for what he'd missed.
Most relaxing six weeks of his life.
…
Even years later, whenever it rained, he'd close his eyes and find himself back there. It never failed to make him smile.
His shelter was cocoon-like, it smelled vaguely of smoke, and it leaked. He'd lie with his eyes open, back against the hard metal shard of the fuselage, knowing his things were safe beneath his body.
When he couldn't sleep, he'd listen to the ocean and try to time his breathing to match. He'd wake up with his hand on his belly and his entire body relaxed like it had never been relaxed in a world with cars and rules and other people.
He'd lived in borrowed spaces his entire life. Motel rooms, rental apartments, foster care. His shelter was his, and no one else's. He'd built it with his own two hands. Maybe that was why he loved it.
End