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Nov. 30th, 2005 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dollsomeGreat Scott, she wrote something!
Kate/Sawyer is magic. I swear.
Little pointless fic thing -- the first time I have attempted Sawyer's POV! (be afraid) -- set shortly after What Kate Did.
Sawyer’s not sure about this.
Of course, he’s never been one for careful consideration. If the feeling’s right, might as well go for it. Life is short. If you tiptoe too much around everything, sooner or later you’ll wind up dead only to discover that living hadn’t been much different. Well, either that or chances are you’ll be a doctor driving yourself crazy trying to save a whole damn island.
He figures, technically, his own thirst for life should’ve been reawakened by the fact that he just near wasted away courtesy of a bullet to the shoulder and the inconvenient little lack of a nearby ER.
And yet—
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.” Kate rolls her eyes, hands-on-hips as she stares down at him. He can’t help thinkin’ that maybe he should own the rights to this look by now.
“’Course I’m not nervous, Freckles,” he returns scathingly. “Even with a pair of scissors on her side, I’m not sure how much damage a fine little lady like you’s capable of.”
“Please. I’ve kicked your ass more than once.”
“Oh yeah?” he inquires, wondering idly just how long he can manage to drag this conversation out. “Refresh my memory.”
“Well, there was that time we thought you stole the water – completely got you there – and when you got all fixated on the briefcase—”
“Mm, right,” he says, and grins. It’s the surest way to piss her off, an activity he’s missed more than he cares to admit. “You squirmin’ around on top of me, all hot and bothered . . . real quality memories there. Gets a guy downright warm ‘n fuzzy.”
“Wow, Sawyer,” she deadpans, “that near-death experience really helped you grow as a person.”
“What can I say, sugar? I’m a sensitive man.”
She raises a quizzical eyebrow and apparently chooses not to comment. Instead, she reaches out to take his arm. “Come on, get up.”
As he grumbles in acquiescence, the scissor blades catch the sunlight. He can’t help thinking it seems like they’re mighty eager to show off just how much destruction they could potentially cause.
“Say,” he begins, real casual, “you ever done this before?”
She’s quick to prove just how much casual doesn’t mean to her. “Oh, God, I knew it!” She allows herself a triumphant giggle or two. He glowers. “You’re nervous. You’re afraid I’m going to ruin your hair.”
“Bullshit,” he intones, rolling his eyes to prove it. She ignores him.
“Come on. Don’t you trust me?” She’s nothing short of glowing now. He has half a mind to borrow the scissors, snip off a few of her precious locks, and see how she feels.
“Sure you don’t have elsewhere to be, baby? I’m sure the good doc’s gettin’ mighty lonely with you off playin’ nursemaid all the time.”
She narrows her eyes at him for a second or two before giving up and smiling instead. It throws him, a little, how gorgeous her smile is (though damned if he’ll ever tell her this). Not to mention the fact that it’s been making appearances a hell of a lot more than usual lately.
“If I didn’t know better, Freckles, I’d almost think you were glad to have me back,” he comments wryly. It winds up coming out a little less wry than he’d meant to, and something slight changes in her eyes as soon as he says it.
Damn it.
“If I didn’t know better,” she says, and looks down at the pair of scissors in her hand, “I might agree with you.”
Jesus. He doesn’t know how to do this. She looks almost childish all of a sudden – fragile, sneaking glances up at him like she’s searching for some kind of approval. He’s got flickering memories of Patsy Cline and her voice, her lips against his forehead, the scent and feel of her and the fact that that had been the thing that had made him sure he was still alive.
There’s darkness in her – he’s been on her bad side frequently enough to have figured that out by now – but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s beautiful, and a hell of a lot better than most of the people he’s met in his life. Maybe she’s not quite good, but he wouldn’t trust himself to judge that anyway.
“Kate?”
It’s an accident, when he says it.
“Yeah?” Maybe he’s seeing things – can’t ever be too sure, after Black goddamn Beauty’s galloped away on a desert island in front of your own two eyes – but she seems to brighten. It’s almost as though she’s anticipating something.
Which he knows, logically, don’t add up. She’s got her doctor, her hero, and it can’t get much better than that. Why she’s even spending time with him is anybody’s guess: doctor’s orders, maybe, he thinks darkly, and that’s enough to shatter this. Whatever this is.
“You gonna give me that damn haircut or what?”
Kate/Sawyer is magic. I swear.
Little pointless fic thing -- the first time I have attempted Sawyer's POV! (be afraid) -- set shortly after What Kate Did.
Sawyer’s not sure about this.
Of course, he’s never been one for careful consideration. If the feeling’s right, might as well go for it. Life is short. If you tiptoe too much around everything, sooner or later you’ll wind up dead only to discover that living hadn’t been much different. Well, either that or chances are you’ll be a doctor driving yourself crazy trying to save a whole damn island.
He figures, technically, his own thirst for life should’ve been reawakened by the fact that he just near wasted away courtesy of a bullet to the shoulder and the inconvenient little lack of a nearby ER.
And yet—
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.” Kate rolls her eyes, hands-on-hips as she stares down at him. He can’t help thinkin’ that maybe he should own the rights to this look by now.
“’Course I’m not nervous, Freckles,” he returns scathingly. “Even with a pair of scissors on her side, I’m not sure how much damage a fine little lady like you’s capable of.”
“Please. I’ve kicked your ass more than once.”
“Oh yeah?” he inquires, wondering idly just how long he can manage to drag this conversation out. “Refresh my memory.”
“Well, there was that time we thought you stole the water – completely got you there – and when you got all fixated on the briefcase—”
“Mm, right,” he says, and grins. It’s the surest way to piss her off, an activity he’s missed more than he cares to admit. “You squirmin’ around on top of me, all hot and bothered . . . real quality memories there. Gets a guy downright warm ‘n fuzzy.”
“Wow, Sawyer,” she deadpans, “that near-death experience really helped you grow as a person.”
“What can I say, sugar? I’m a sensitive man.”
She raises a quizzical eyebrow and apparently chooses not to comment. Instead, she reaches out to take his arm. “Come on, get up.”
As he grumbles in acquiescence, the scissor blades catch the sunlight. He can’t help thinking it seems like they’re mighty eager to show off just how much destruction they could potentially cause.
“Say,” he begins, real casual, “you ever done this before?”
She’s quick to prove just how much casual doesn’t mean to her. “Oh, God, I knew it!” She allows herself a triumphant giggle or two. He glowers. “You’re nervous. You’re afraid I’m going to ruin your hair.”
“Bullshit,” he intones, rolling his eyes to prove it. She ignores him.
“Come on. Don’t you trust me?” She’s nothing short of glowing now. He has half a mind to borrow the scissors, snip off a few of her precious locks, and see how she feels.
“Sure you don’t have elsewhere to be, baby? I’m sure the good doc’s gettin’ mighty lonely with you off playin’ nursemaid all the time.”
She narrows her eyes at him for a second or two before giving up and smiling instead. It throws him, a little, how gorgeous her smile is (though damned if he’ll ever tell her this). Not to mention the fact that it’s been making appearances a hell of a lot more than usual lately.
“If I didn’t know better, Freckles, I’d almost think you were glad to have me back,” he comments wryly. It winds up coming out a little less wry than he’d meant to, and something slight changes in her eyes as soon as he says it.
Damn it.
“If I didn’t know better,” she says, and looks down at the pair of scissors in her hand, “I might agree with you.”
Jesus. He doesn’t know how to do this. She looks almost childish all of a sudden – fragile, sneaking glances up at him like she’s searching for some kind of approval. He’s got flickering memories of Patsy Cline and her voice, her lips against his forehead, the scent and feel of her and the fact that that had been the thing that had made him sure he was still alive.
There’s darkness in her – he’s been on her bad side frequently enough to have figured that out by now – but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s beautiful, and a hell of a lot better than most of the people he’s met in his life. Maybe she’s not quite good, but he wouldn’t trust himself to judge that anyway.
“Kate?”
It’s an accident, when he says it.
“Yeah?” Maybe he’s seeing things – can’t ever be too sure, after Black goddamn Beauty’s galloped away on a desert island in front of your own two eyes – but she seems to brighten. It’s almost as though she’s anticipating something.
Which he knows, logically, don’t add up. She’s got her doctor, her hero, and it can’t get much better than that. Why she’s even spending time with him is anybody’s guess: doctor’s orders, maybe, he thinks darkly, and that’s enough to shatter this. Whatever this is.
“You gonna give me that damn haircut or what?”
