LOST - This open sky is painted blue
Title: This open sky is painted blue
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer; Sawyer/Juliet
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Neither is Ben Lee (title).
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 920
Summary: She screwed up her placement test on purpose. Just goes to show you, everyone's got a self-destructive streak.
A/N: A very late offering for former Queen hitlikehammers, who wanted 'Greatest Hits' at the lostsquee Luau. Also for un_love_you, I need to want you.
I think that ghosts like the cooler weather
(Autumn's Here, Hawksley Workman)
-
"I bet," Miles says, "six months max before you two shack up." Sawyer chokes on his beer. If he were a little more or a little less drunk he'd probably take a punch, wipe the smirk off that smug little face.
"Shut the hell up," he mutters. Juliet's looking at them across the room, a light that might be alcohol dancing in her eyes. Say what you will about Horace, but he throws a damn good shindig. Or maybe wedded bliss just suits him. There's a drink in her hand. She's wearing a sundress, blue, a shade that doesn't match her eyes.
That night's the first. Two months later and they've started holding hands in public. Just to spite Miles, he and Juliet set up house in three.
-
The worst part is probably that in 1974, air conditioning has been around for several decades, but it's still several heatstrokes away from installation here in Dharmaville, or that's what Horace tells him when Sawyer registers a rather strongly-worded complaint. He minded the heat before but not as much as he does now, sittin' pretty in a little yellow cottage with a ceiling fan like he's Dorothy, still in Kansas, waiting for the tornado to strike.
The heat makes the veins stick out in his forehead and plasters his (unbelievably straight, unbelievably seventies) hair to his forehead like he's a teenager or an old man experimenting with Rogaine. Sometimes it's too hot to do anything at all, and he studies the backs of his hands after work while Juliet stares at the wall like it'll start telling her secrets if she waits long enough. He never bothers her when she gets like that. There are too many things they don't talk about, too many people they're both busy pretending not to miss.
Occasionally the sub brings in a few paperbacks from the mainland, and every time it's like Christmas, if Christmas were actually a good thing. They save the books for the long empty Saturdays when the rain comes down in a monsoon and Juliet lets their jumpsuits ("uniforms," Horace insists, thank you very much) hang on the railing outside, exposed to the elements. Easier than doing the wash, and twice as convenient. "Genius," he tells her, but privately he thinks she just might be going a little crazy. Cabin fever. Island fever. Whatever. He orders funny books for her on purpose because he likes the way the empty rooms echo when she laughs.
-
At six months in, this is what he knows:
When she laughs she doesn't smile too big and when she smiles she doesn't ever laugh. He doesn't keep tabs on it or anything. But spend a few months in la-la land with a (really fuckin' gorgeous, yes, of course he notices) woman and you start noticing these things. She screwed up her placement test on purpose. Just goes to show you, everyone's got a self-destructive streak. She's not as bad a cook as you'd think. She secretly likes it when he asks her out on a "date," he can tell by the way her eyes widen a fraction every time, though she also always snickers and tells him he's unbearably cheesy. Her favorite books are his favorites, too. He's surprised when she says yes the first time, and more shocked than he should be when she says it again. Somehow he thought she'd be too smart to go for someone like him.
-
"No," she says, "no, it's that way." And after a moment, "happy 1975, James." He's got his arm around her shoulders and he can't seem to recall how it got there. She's giggling a little, hiccuping, but her eyes are glued to the ground. To the blackness where the ground should be. It's way too late to be out and about, even here in goddamn suburbia. But four small yellow walls are four walls too many and they've both been claustrophobic for far too long, and a few glasses of wine apiece made a little midnight stroll sound like a hell of an idea. His head's spinning like a fuckin' merry-go-round. His mouth tastes of the sick he can't let out. He's run a lot of cons and ruined way too many lives but somehow he thinks he'll never feel like more of a liar than he does at this moment. Now. With her head on his chest and her long cool fingers wrapped around his wrist and new year's confetti sparkling in her hair.
They stop walking when they reach the fence, just as he knew they would, and electric porchlights lead them back home. She doesn't say goodnight once they get inside, just glances at him with a look in her eyes like she's as tired as she's ever been and a smile like she knows he knows what she means. He kisses her then, and she places her shaking hands on his face, and it's not like the first time but he wouldn't really want it to be.
-
The next day it feels like the hottest day of the millennium, but he knows that can't be right because he remembers the summer of ninety-four, and that one was a killer. Which is weird in about fifty different ways, but hey, so is everything else in this weird-ass life of his. After their shifts are up he and Juliet go out to the dock, as close to the water as they can actually get without going for a swim. She stretches, hands crisscrossing above her head. He glares into the glaring-back sun. There's a sub coming in tomorrow. He's hoping for a rain.
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer; Sawyer/Juliet
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine. Neither is Ben Lee (title).
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 920
Summary: She screwed up her placement test on purpose. Just goes to show you, everyone's got a self-destructive streak.
A/N: A very late offering for former Queen hitlikehammers, who wanted 'Greatest Hits' at the lostsquee Luau. Also for un_love_you, I need to want you.
I think that ghosts like the cooler weather
(Autumn's Here, Hawksley Workman)
-
"I bet," Miles says, "six months max before you two shack up." Sawyer chokes on his beer. If he were a little more or a little less drunk he'd probably take a punch, wipe the smirk off that smug little face.
"Shut the hell up," he mutters. Juliet's looking at them across the room, a light that might be alcohol dancing in her eyes. Say what you will about Horace, but he throws a damn good shindig. Or maybe wedded bliss just suits him. There's a drink in her hand. She's wearing a sundress, blue, a shade that doesn't match her eyes.
That night's the first. Two months later and they've started holding hands in public. Just to spite Miles, he and Juliet set up house in three.
-
The worst part is probably that in 1974, air conditioning has been around for several decades, but it's still several heatstrokes away from installation here in Dharmaville, or that's what Horace tells him when Sawyer registers a rather strongly-worded complaint. He minded the heat before but not as much as he does now, sittin' pretty in a little yellow cottage with a ceiling fan like he's Dorothy, still in Kansas, waiting for the tornado to strike.
The heat makes the veins stick out in his forehead and plasters his (unbelievably straight, unbelievably seventies) hair to his forehead like he's a teenager or an old man experimenting with Rogaine. Sometimes it's too hot to do anything at all, and he studies the backs of his hands after work while Juliet stares at the wall like it'll start telling her secrets if she waits long enough. He never bothers her when she gets like that. There are too many things they don't talk about, too many people they're both busy pretending not to miss.
Occasionally the sub brings in a few paperbacks from the mainland, and every time it's like Christmas, if Christmas were actually a good thing. They save the books for the long empty Saturdays when the rain comes down in a monsoon and Juliet lets their jumpsuits ("uniforms," Horace insists, thank you very much) hang on the railing outside, exposed to the elements. Easier than doing the wash, and twice as convenient. "Genius," he tells her, but privately he thinks she just might be going a little crazy. Cabin fever. Island fever. Whatever. He orders funny books for her on purpose because he likes the way the empty rooms echo when she laughs.
-
At six months in, this is what he knows:
When she laughs she doesn't smile too big and when she smiles she doesn't ever laugh. He doesn't keep tabs on it or anything. But spend a few months in la-la land with a (really fuckin' gorgeous, yes, of course he notices) woman and you start noticing these things. She screwed up her placement test on purpose. Just goes to show you, everyone's got a self-destructive streak. She's not as bad a cook as you'd think. She secretly likes it when he asks her out on a "date," he can tell by the way her eyes widen a fraction every time, though she also always snickers and tells him he's unbearably cheesy. Her favorite books are his favorites, too. He's surprised when she says yes the first time, and more shocked than he should be when she says it again. Somehow he thought she'd be too smart to go for someone like him.
-
"No," she says, "no, it's that way." And after a moment, "happy 1975, James." He's got his arm around her shoulders and he can't seem to recall how it got there. She's giggling a little, hiccuping, but her eyes are glued to the ground. To the blackness where the ground should be. It's way too late to be out and about, even here in goddamn suburbia. But four small yellow walls are four walls too many and they've both been claustrophobic for far too long, and a few glasses of wine apiece made a little midnight stroll sound like a hell of an idea. His head's spinning like a fuckin' merry-go-round. His mouth tastes of the sick he can't let out. He's run a lot of cons and ruined way too many lives but somehow he thinks he'll never feel like more of a liar than he does at this moment. Now. With her head on his chest and her long cool fingers wrapped around his wrist and new year's confetti sparkling in her hair.
They stop walking when they reach the fence, just as he knew they would, and electric porchlights lead them back home. She doesn't say goodnight once they get inside, just glances at him with a look in her eyes like she's as tired as she's ever been and a smile like she knows he knows what she means. He kisses her then, and she places her shaking hands on his face, and it's not like the first time but he wouldn't really want it to be.
-
The next day it feels like the hottest day of the millennium, but he knows that can't be right because he remembers the summer of ninety-four, and that one was a killer. Which is weird in about fifty different ways, but hey, so is everything else in this weird-ass life of his. After their shifts are up he and Juliet go out to the dock, as close to the water as they can actually get without going for a swim. She stretches, hands crisscrossing above her head. He glares into the glaring-back sun. There's a sub coming in tomorrow. He's hoping for a rain.