Where I'd Like To Be When The World Falls Down
Title: Where I'd Like to be When the World Falls Down
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Rating: R for brief sexual scenes
Summary: Sawyer and Juliet on the island after the O6 leave, Juliet gets pregnant.
Word count: 2,940 (Totally was not meant to be this long...it got a little out of control)
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost or the characters used in this fanfiction.
It first happens three weeks and six days after the night they sat together on the shore, watching smoke twist upwards in the sky, tossing their one escape method to the wind.
She’s pissed and he’s furious and they take it out on each other; frantic hands tugging sharply on blonde curls, teeth sinking down into heated flesh until blood wells up from sensitive tissue, fingers forcing themselves up within her so deeply that she cries out in raw pain instead of pleasure.
When they collapse next to each other, aching and bruised, the anger and passion ebbs away into an indifferent numbness. She pushes herself back into his arms, because that’s what she knows she’s supposed to do, and he traces lazy circles over the milky white crest of her hip.
His hand slides up the dip of her side and the ridges of her ribs, circles the round of her shoulder, before settling on the bruised puncture marks in the hollow by her neck. She tenses slightly as the tender area throbs and his hand stills.
“Sorry.”
But his words are harsh and sharp and she knows he doesn’t mean it. She smirks and reaches behind her, running her fingertips up his side until he sucks in a sharp breath as her fiery skin brushes the angry red scratch marks on his back, before commenting,
“Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t and she doesn’t and they’re both careful to conceal the mottled bruises and scratches the next day when they tug on old jeans and long sleeved tops. When she slips out from under the blue tarp of a door she swears she won’t do it again, promises herself that she won’t be so stupid.
When the sun sets that evening and a light chill settles over the shore she finds herself tiptoeing across the beach and pushing the tarp of his tent aside, intent on breaking her promise.
She finds out nine weeks, three days and six hours after the first night.
It starts with nausea that seeps so deep her bones literally ache, then there’s the sharp pain in her breasts that makes her eyes prick with tears when he palms one a little too roughly, the fatigue that has her dragging by noon, the mysterious absence of bright red spots on the lining of her cotton panties.
The small transducer trembles in her hand as she presses it to her flawless skin, rolling it in a circular motion as she searches for the flicker of a heartbeat. And suddenly there it is; a small, grainy, black and white flutter in the middle of the screen that steals her breath away and fills her lungs with justifiable panic. She flicks off the screen and wipes the ice blue gel from her belly, mind spinning and heart racing.
As she tugs her thin coral t-shirt back over her abdomen she sets her mind, she won’t tell him. She’ll come back to the medical centre daily to inject herself with a slightly altered vaccine, but she won’t tell him. And she certainly won’t sleep with him anymore.
Three days later she breaks her promise. She sleeps with him, but doesn’t tell him about the baby.
Six weeks, nine days later he gets suspicious.
She’s lying at his side, dozing quietly, and he lets his hand slide down to the hem of her t shirt. His fingertips reach underneath the thin cotton, gently brushing over the smooth skin of her belly. As his palm grazes her belly it stills, her abdomen is swollen and taut.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, rousing her from her sleep.
She blinks sleepily, confusedly, and tries to orient herself, “What?”
He brushes her shirt further up, exposing the slight swell of her skin, “What the hell is this?”
She scrambles to tug the shirt back down and colour floods her cheeks, “Nothing.”
“That sure as hell don’t look like nothing.” He drawls, his accent more pronounced as anger and panic floods his veins.
She shakes her head and gently touches his shoulder, reassuring him, “It’s nothing, I ate something earlier today and I haven’t been feeling well. I’m bloated, that’s all.”
He surveys her anxiously, suspicion still clearly marked in his expression. When she doesn’t flinch or look away he finally nods,
“Alright.”
This time she keeps her promise, it’s too risky now that she’s begun to show.
Sixty three days later it becomes hard to conceal the evidence.
At six months she knows she’s living on borrowed time, every morning that she wakes up without pain or bleeding she sends up a silent prayer of thanks. Her belly presses against the confines of her roomiest outfits and she struggles to drape herself in layers to mask the obvious swell.
She avoids him expertly and spends hours on end by herself, pushing layer upon layer of fabric up under her breasts so she can watch her thin skin ripple ever so slightly over the baby’s movements. Her avoidance is facilitated by their move back to the Others’ makeshift village, as she’s able to take back her home and hide away in the small building. She likes to lie on the couch without a top on and let her fingers flit over the rounded skin as tiny butterfly kicks stir deep within her, rousing something resembling maternal instinct.
Nine days, three hours later she panics.
She wakes as agonizing pain wraps itself around her waist, dissolving her into a writhing, whimpering mess. She struggles out from underneath a thin navy blanket and her mind spins in a panic as she sees small red spots in the crisp white sheets where she had been lying.
Sitting on his own porch with a Dharma beer and Moby Dick, he hears a commotion from inside her home and watches as the lights begin to flick on. He wanders over reluctantly, and raps on her front door,
“Juliet?”
She emerges, white faced, with a hand gripping the bottom of her rounded belly and he startles before glaring at her accusingly,
“Well that don’t look like no bloating now, do it?”
She shies away from his question, “Something’s wrong.”
He feels a flicker of anxiety deep within his chest as she doubles over, gripping the door frame next to her, and reaches out to help her stand while she pants through the contraction.
He manages to get her to the medical station and hovers uncomfortably in the corner as she sets up an IV line and tugs out the ultrasound, swirling the transducer over her proturbant belly. As the image settles on the squirming fetus’ flickering heart he watches her face crumple and relieved tears pour over her flushed cheeks. She lets the IV run, timing each contraction, and he feels the tight knot in his chest begin to give way as they start coming every 4, 7, 9 minutes.
She finally nods, a couple hours later, and says,
“It’s ok, preterm labour but I was able to get it under control. The contractions should stop altogether in a little while.”
He rocks back on his heels and watches her for a moment before asking,
“We gonna talk about this?”
Nine weeks, nine days later, it happens.
She’s lying on the beach, with a pair of sunglasses stolen from Sawyer’s stash perched on the bridge of her nose, when her water breaks; a slippery, messy puddle on the ground beneath her. She rolls onto her side and pushes herself off the ground, wincing as more fluid trickles down from between her legs.
She walks stiffly back to the row of small houses and yells,
“Hey!”
He pokes his head out from his ‘home’ and she motions to the damp spot blooming on the front of her pants, “Let’s go.”
She hunches forward, bracing herself on her knees as a contraction surprises her suddenly and grips unmercifully at her belly. He runs from his porch, catching her elbow and supporting her as her knees buckle beneath her. Her hand moves up to grip the underside of her belly and he slides his rough palm over the puckered scar at the bottom of her back, rubbing in smooth, reassuring circles.
“You ok?” He asks when she straightens, his forehead furrowed with concern.
She takes a few short, tentative breaths before nodding, “Just fine, let’s go.”
He nods and swallows hard, hovering uncharacteristically by her elbow in case she seizes up in another fit of contractions. She glances back, catches the panic in his eyes, and chuckles,
“Sawyer, it’s going to be fine.”
He tries to let her reassuring words comfort him but, as much as he hates to admit it, he wishes the Doc’ were back here instead of him. He helps her set up the labour and delivery room, mutely doing everything she asks while she putters around arranging drapes and suction kits.
He retreats to the back corner as she strips out of her street clothes and into a loose hospital gown, easing another over her shoulders to covers the slit of bare skin up her back. She paces back and forth, sucking in deep breaths through pursed lips as the contractions rise and fall. He waits until a contraction subsides to ask,
“D’you want me to go an’ find Charlotte or Rose or someone?”
She shakes her head, hands on her hips, “You’ll be fine.”
He squirms slightly, “I dunno about all this baby stuff...”
She shakes her head again, “Sawyer, you’re fine. I don’t need you to do anything but catch the baby.”
“Right.” He draws out the single word before continuing, “I dunno ‘bout that, I mean it’s...”
He watches her stiffen as another contraction tightens in her abdomen and she hisses, “Drop it.”
As it turns out, she’s more independent than he would have figured and she manages to struggle her way through most contractions on her own. He stands by in case she needs him but she prefers to curl up into a tiny ball of pain and moan her way through the surging waves of pain, lost in her own little hellish world.
About six hours in she suddenly pushes herself off the hospital bed and states,
“I can’t do this here. I need an actual bed, with room to move around. This is too....sterile.”
He watches her with a bemused smile before asking, “Well, where you gonna find a proper bed ‘round here?”
She motions to the sterile packs and equipment she’s set up and says, “Pick this up and follow me.”
She leads him down the hall to a small door just next to the exit, sliding a key in the lock before pushing the door open. He steps into a small bedroom, with a simple bed in the corner and a couple chairs placed strategically in the corners.
“What is this?”
“It was supposed to be for the husbands while the mothers were in labour. We never got that far.”
There’s a change in her demeanour, a tightening around the corner of her eyes and a stiffening in her spine, but he lets it slide and helps her get arranged in the small bed.
Eleven hours later he watches anxiously as she rolls on her left side, eyes wide and pupils dilated in pain, entire body trembling, sweat trickling down the side of her face.
“You ok?”
She closes her eyes, her mouth set in a grim line, but nods and lets out a shaky breath,
“It won’t be long.”
He swallows hard and he can feel his heart beating in his throat, pounding so loudly that he can’t hear anything else. She stiffens and suddenly outstretches her hand to him. He hesitates before wrapping it in his and nearly yanks it back to his chest as she crushes it with surprising strength. When she’s able to relax for a moment she slides a hand between her thighs and nods, looking in his direction,
“Get a pair of gloves on and toss me a few of the spare towels. Bring me the suction bulb and a pair of clean scissors.”
“Right.” He mutters, hurrying to do what she’s asked.
When he returns she’s rearranged herself so that there are several towels beneath her bent knees and pillows are propped up behind her, keeping her upright as her body trembles in pain. He sets the things she’s requested next to her and she explains between short gasps,
“You need to support the baby’s head as it comes out, cradle it in your palm. When it’s out, listen because this is important, when it’s out slide your fingers under my skin and check to see if they cord is around its neck. If it is, try and slip it over the head, if it won’t come over we’ll deal with that then. You ready?”
His face is an ashen gray colour but he nods hesitantly. She smiles reassuringly and gently says,
“You’ll be fine. Like I said, catch the baby, that’s all there is to it.”
He eases himself up onto the bed and she undrapes her legs, catching the almost-cringe on his face but choosing to ignore it. He looks up at her awkwardly and stammers,
“Well, alrighty then...push, I guess.”
She laughs softly but curls forward and bears down, gripping the bedsheets in her hands as her body quivers. He looks up at her in alarm and says,
“Juliet, the head’s already there.”
“I know.” She spits through gritted teeth, “I waited so you wouldn’t have as much to do, just support it.”
“Right” He murmurs and she feels his hand press against her skin a he cradles to top of the baby’s head.
A sharp cry escapes her lips as her skin stretches and she lets out a shuddering breath as the remainder of the head eases its way out. She winces as she feels his fingertips tracing the baby’s neck and he says,
“No cord.”
“Good,” She breathes, “That’s good. Support the head and put your other hand under the baby’s back as it comes out.”
She bears down again but it takes several minutes to dislodge the shoulders, and she sags in exhaustion before mustering up her remaining strength and forcing herself to push once more. Her body trembles even more violently at the sudden, strange feeling of emptiness as the baby slides into Sawyer’s arms.
Tears trickle over her cheeks as she reaches for the baby and draws it to her chest, staining the hospital gown with blood and fluid. The baby, a little girl, wails loudly and struggles on her chest, trying out her long limbs for the first time. Juliet traces her fingertip over the baby’s spine before draping her in several of the spare towels, wiping away to sticky residue covering her skin. She looks up at Sawyer, who’s sitting silently at the end of the bed, looking a little bit lost, and asks,
“What do you think?”
As he looks at the small, wriggling, crying baby in her arms he wonders if he should feel a rush of paternal instinct or love. He doesn’t, but as he realizes how small and helpless this little thing is he feels a sudden, overpowering feeling of protectiveness. It’s something he’s never felt before and although he’s not quite sure what it is yet, there’s something there. As he watches Juliet shift the baby in her arms, cupping the tiny head in her palm, he realizes that the feeling extends to her also. The two of them have been linked somehow and this protectiveness swells in his chest, a weighted responsibility.
He can’t call it love, not yet, but it’s something and it’s there. He pushes himself off the end of the bed and moves to sit by her head, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple before murmuring,
“I think you two are pretty amazing.”
Three years after it all began, they’re happy.
“Oi! Rachel!” He yells after her as the giggling, blonde toddler makes a break for it.
Juliet chuckles from her position on a beach towel as he pushes himself up and hurries after her, scooping the little girl up in his arms. They’re both grinning from ear to ear when they return and Juliet lifts an eyebrow,
“You’re supposed to be bad cop today.”
“Right.” He corrects, rearranging his expression to something resembling a frown, “Rachel, you can’t just be runnin’ off like that.”
She giggles again and squirms in his embrace, kicking out until he lets her down. Once free, she runs to Juliet and scrambles up into her lap, pressing a butterfly kiss to her cheek. Juliet hugs her daughter, holding her close, and murmurs,
“I love you so much.”
Rachel grins happily and chirps, “Love you too, mama!”
She releases her and watches her settle herself next to the towel, suddenly absorbed with constructing a sandcastle. Sawyer settles himself back in the sand and reclines next to her, quietly murmuring,
“It’s been three years today, three years since we watched that ship go up in smoke.”
She nods but doesn’t take her eyes off her giggling daughter as she lifts a handful of warm sand and trickles it down her shirt.
“Rachel.” She sighs in exasperation, but she can’t help but chuckle as the little girl flashes her a wide smile and giggles again.
He watches Rachel for a moment before looking out at the horizon and asking,
“We ain’t never gettin’ off this island, are we?”
She shakes her head but then says, “You know what? I don’t really mind, I’ve got everything I need right here.”
Type your cut contents here.