Walking After Midnight, chapter 2
Title: Walking After Midnight, chapter 2
Rating: PG-13/T/whatever the hell they're calling a bit of sex and language these days.
Spoilers: Up to the season 3 finale.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost or the characters thereof. I'm just borrowing.
Summary/AN: Kate/Sawyer, back on the beach, immediately following the finale.
chapter 1
It's dark now. Dark and chilly and clear. The campfires have died down and the beach is mostly deserted, though there is soft talking from many of the tents. Most of the survivors are too excited to sleep, and even the rotation of armed men assigned to guard Ben through the night are in high spirits.
Kate and Sawyer are silent. They've spoken very little since the return to the beach. He won't tell her how exactly Hurley's rescue took place, glosses it over with an embellished, teasing version of seeing the large man bouncing along in the old van, heading straight for their captors. He won't tell her how it was that Tom came to be shot, but she's seen the body of the Other, seen Sawyer's expression when Juliet pulled the tarp over his face.
Likewise, she won't tell him about the radio tower, about Naomi and Locke and Ben. She won't say how it felt to watch Jack come back with a beaten and bloodied Ben, to hear that their plan had gone horribly wrong, that their people had been overtaken and killed. She can't tell him that she had thought she'd come back and have to help dig graves again, too many, and that she still feels guilty for thinking only of him when he hadn't even been named with those dead.
Neither one mentions what she'd briefly brought up in the jungle, that she might be carrying his child. Sometimes Kate thinks she must have imagined that exchange.
So they let their bodies do the talking instead. Laying on her back in his tent, she closes her eyes as she lets him undress her, slowly, his calloused fingers brushing against the skin of her chest, her abdomen, her thighs. Once again, she's never known him to be so gentle, so careful with her. Eyes still closed, she moves her body to accommodate his task, lifting her hips when his hand slips under her to ease her pants and undergarments down her legs.
He sits back on his heels when she's completely naked, pulling his own clothing off and tossing it into a corner of the tent with hers. She opens her eyes then, finding him watching her so intently, with a look she can't read in his eyes, that it scares her. “Sawy--”
The name isn't halfway off her lips before he's lowering himself over her, his hands pinning her arms to the floor of the tent. “Shh, Freckles...I ain't gonna hurt you.” Then his body is covering hers and she raises up to meet him, letting out a sigh that's buried in his kiss as flesh meets flesh.
They still barely talk as gentle caresses make their way into fevered, demanding lovemaking, their only sounds skin on skin and hot breath, soft gasps and moans of pleasure mingled with pain. Occasionally she mumbles his name as her teeth graze across his throat, and he growls hers into her hair as he memorizes the scent of her sweat. Once she thinks she hears him utter the word “love,” but she can't be sure and she'll never ask.
Afterwards they lay entangled, bodies slick with sweat, her head on his chest where she can feel his heart beating against her cheek. His fingers run through her tangled hair and she winces when he hits a snag; he mutters an absent “sorry” as he uses his other hand to push himself up into a sitting position.
“You didn't have to stop...” She protests quietly, surprising herself, turning on her side to watch him.
He nods, almost to himself, and reaches behind him for a beer can from his stash, popping the tab and taking a long sip, eyes closed.
She snorts softly at that, rolling her eyes a little and laying on the sarcasm. “Ever the gentleman.”
“Who said you're a lady?” He returns, opening his eyes again. He looks almost as if he's been interrupted from deep thought, but he gives her a wide grin and holds the can out to her. “Relax, Freckles; never said I ain't sharin'.”
chapter 3
Rating: PG-13/T/whatever the hell they're calling a bit of sex and language these days.
Spoilers: Up to the season 3 finale.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost or the characters thereof. I'm just borrowing.
Summary/AN: Kate/Sawyer, back on the beach, immediately following the finale.
chapter 1
It's dark now. Dark and chilly and clear. The campfires have died down and the beach is mostly deserted, though there is soft talking from many of the tents. Most of the survivors are too excited to sleep, and even the rotation of armed men assigned to guard Ben through the night are in high spirits.
Kate and Sawyer are silent. They've spoken very little since the return to the beach. He won't tell her how exactly Hurley's rescue took place, glosses it over with an embellished, teasing version of seeing the large man bouncing along in the old van, heading straight for their captors. He won't tell her how it was that Tom came to be shot, but she's seen the body of the Other, seen Sawyer's expression when Juliet pulled the tarp over his face.
Likewise, she won't tell him about the radio tower, about Naomi and Locke and Ben. She won't say how it felt to watch Jack come back with a beaten and bloodied Ben, to hear that their plan had gone horribly wrong, that their people had been overtaken and killed. She can't tell him that she had thought she'd come back and have to help dig graves again, too many, and that she still feels guilty for thinking only of him when he hadn't even been named with those dead.
Neither one mentions what she'd briefly brought up in the jungle, that she might be carrying his child. Sometimes Kate thinks she must have imagined that exchange.
So they let their bodies do the talking instead. Laying on her back in his tent, she closes her eyes as she lets him undress her, slowly, his calloused fingers brushing against the skin of her chest, her abdomen, her thighs. Once again, she's never known him to be so gentle, so careful with her. Eyes still closed, she moves her body to accommodate his task, lifting her hips when his hand slips under her to ease her pants and undergarments down her legs.
He sits back on his heels when she's completely naked, pulling his own clothing off and tossing it into a corner of the tent with hers. She opens her eyes then, finding him watching her so intently, with a look she can't read in his eyes, that it scares her. “Sawy--”
The name isn't halfway off her lips before he's lowering himself over her, his hands pinning her arms to the floor of the tent. “Shh, Freckles...I ain't gonna hurt you.” Then his body is covering hers and she raises up to meet him, letting out a sigh that's buried in his kiss as flesh meets flesh.
They still barely talk as gentle caresses make their way into fevered, demanding lovemaking, their only sounds skin on skin and hot breath, soft gasps and moans of pleasure mingled with pain. Occasionally she mumbles his name as her teeth graze across his throat, and he growls hers into her hair as he memorizes the scent of her sweat. Once she thinks she hears him utter the word “love,” but she can't be sure and she'll never ask.
Afterwards they lay entangled, bodies slick with sweat, her head on his chest where she can feel his heart beating against her cheek. His fingers run through her tangled hair and she winces when he hits a snag; he mutters an absent “sorry” as he uses his other hand to push himself up into a sitting position.
“You didn't have to stop...” She protests quietly, surprising herself, turning on her side to watch him.
He nods, almost to himself, and reaches behind him for a beer can from his stash, popping the tab and taking a long sip, eyes closed.
She snorts softly at that, rolling her eyes a little and laying on the sarcasm. “Ever the gentleman.”
“Who said you're a lady?” He returns, opening his eyes again. He looks almost as if he's been interrupted from deep thought, but he gives her a wide grin and holds the can out to her. “Relax, Freckles; never said I ain't sharin'.”
chapter 3