Walking After Midnight, chapter 3
Title: Walking After Midnight, 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: Kate/Sawyer, back on the beach, immediately following the finale.
chapter 2
Later, slightly drunk with sex and Sawyer and Dharma beer, Kate takes his hand and unwraps his arm from around her middle. From the way he stirs and mutters incoherently, she can tell he's been sleeping, and she indulges in a halfway-serious “typical man” gripe to herself before slipping out from under the airline blanket he'd covered them with when she'd started to get chilly. She settles his arm back against his body and he snorts a bit and turns over and she's glad for the unintentional privacy.
In the corner of the tent, she extracts her discarded clothing from his and dresses quickly, awkwardly in the small space. It isn't until she's buttoning her long-sleeved shirt over her tank top that she hears him stir again; she looks over her shoulder to see him reaching, eyes still closed, for the space she'd vacated minutes before. She's just crouching to stand up at the entrance to the tent, boots in hand, when he speaks. His voice is thick with sleep and his Southern accent more pronounced than usual. “Whatcha doin', Shortcake?”
“That's not my...” She begins, but then looks at him almost sympathetically, though she makes no move to return to her place beside him. “Old habits--”
“Die hard. I know.” He sounds irritated now, propping himself up on an elbow. “This one's damned near immortal.” A pause as he reaches for his jeans. “Do I really gotta remind you that your tent ain't?”
Damn. She really had forgotten, albeit momentarily, that her tent had been one of the ones destroyed in the day's events. Still, she shakes her head, reaching for the makeshift tent flap. “Sawyer...” She lets his name trail off, not knowing what she wants to say, and ducks out of the tent into the night air.
She doesn't expect him to follow her; he never has before. So she's surprised when she hears footsteps behind her as she walks down the beach, away from the survivors' camp. She lets her boots dangle from her hand by their laces, focusing on the feel of cool, damp sand on her feet, grounding her, and she doesn't turn to see if it really is him behind her.
Until, abruptly, his hand closes around her upper arm and she's whipped around to face him, almost running smack into his bare chest. She shakes her arm away and glares, stepping backwards.
“What the hell're you doin', Freckles?”
She turns around again and can feel him following close behind her. “I'm walking.”
“Hell, woman, I can see that.” She can hear his sarcasm, his frustration, and she can't blame him even as she keeps walking. “You do know you're goin' away from camp.”
She doesn't bother to answer the rather obvious question, though she does stop walking to turn towards the ocean, stooping to roll her pant legs up before stepping into the gently lapping surf, digging her toes into the wet sand. Hearing him sigh behind her, she folds her arms in front of her, holding herself almost as if she's cold.
They stand like that for so long, Kate sinking and Sawyer watching, that she's not even sure if he's still there. Finally she hears the soft sounds of clothing shifting and sand moving and she knows without looking that he's sitting down on the beach behind her. A few more minutes pass and then he clears his throat. “This is a new post-coital tradition, Freckles, tryin' to sink your way to China.”
“Maybe China's not the other side of the world here,” she remarks quietly, so he has to lean forward to hear.
“Cute, Sweetcheeks,” he returns sarcastically, and she can hear he's still irritated at her. “But what, you not gonna ask me to join you?”
She pulls one foot out of the sand and kicks across the water, sending a small splash out into the ocean. She watches the ripples subside before speaking again. “Hasn't stopped you yet, James.”
He arches an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic use of his given name and stands, moving so he's positioned just behind her, close enough to feel her without touching. “Why'd you leave, Kate?”
As he emphasizes her own name, sounding almost hateful, she stiffens and turns, walking back out of the water and onto the beach. Standing. Almost as if waiting for him to follow. He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat; he's not going to give her the satisfaction that easily.
“I don't know what's going to happen.”
“What?” Once again, he has to come closer to hear her, and he still doesn't understand the strange statement. “Hell, Freckles, we ain't known what's gonna happen since the second we landed on this goddamned island. You ain't tellin' me nothin' new.”
She shakes her head. “I meant after.” She finally looks at him, for the first time since she left his tent. “When we're...” She bites her lip and can't say the word 'home.' “Back.”
Oh. He almost looks properly chastised, and steps nearer to her, one arm out to draw her close. She stiffens again and turns away, but he's persistent and struggles with her for a few moments before she gives in and leans against him, arms pulled up to her chest as his surround her securely.
Sawyer doesn't do platitudes. He doesn't do nice, and he sure as hell doesn't do glass half full. He stands there, feeling helpless and completely out of his element, until he decides to change gears altogether. Dipping his head so his lips are barely touching her ear, he speaks slowly, his voice drawling, almost seductive. “Guess ya ain't been listenin' to your mix tape much.”
“What?” She pulls her head back, looking up at him, forehead crinkled in confusion.
He shrugs, smirking when he sees he's gotten her attention. “Or ya wouldn't've up and left.” He tips his head, looking up at the stars, smirk still plainly visible even in the darkness. “How can you just walk away from me, when all I can do is watch you leave...”
“You. Know Phil Collins?”
Knowing he's got her, he gives her a toothy grin. “The 80s...”
Understanding dawns, and she can't help it, her lips tug upwards in an amused half smile. “With the pink clothes.”
“Guilty as charged.” He sobers at his choice of phrasing and lowers his head so their foreheads touch. “Come back to bed, Freckles.”
She considers it, lips pressed together, feeling his warm breath on her face. “Just for tonight.” She closes her eyes briefly, then smirks. “If you promise not to sing.”
chapter 4
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: Kate/Sawyer, back on the beach, immediately following the finale.
chapter 2
Later, slightly drunk with sex and Sawyer and Dharma beer, Kate takes his hand and unwraps his arm from around her middle. From the way he stirs and mutters incoherently, she can tell he's been sleeping, and she indulges in a halfway-serious “typical man” gripe to herself before slipping out from under the airline blanket he'd covered them with when she'd started to get chilly. She settles his arm back against his body and he snorts a bit and turns over and she's glad for the unintentional privacy.
In the corner of the tent, she extracts her discarded clothing from his and dresses quickly, awkwardly in the small space. It isn't until she's buttoning her long-sleeved shirt over her tank top that she hears him stir again; she looks over her shoulder to see him reaching, eyes still closed, for the space she'd vacated minutes before. She's just crouching to stand up at the entrance to the tent, boots in hand, when he speaks. His voice is thick with sleep and his Southern accent more pronounced than usual. “Whatcha doin', Shortcake?”
“That's not my...” She begins, but then looks at him almost sympathetically, though she makes no move to return to her place beside him. “Old habits--”
“Die hard. I know.” He sounds irritated now, propping himself up on an elbow. “This one's damned near immortal.” A pause as he reaches for his jeans. “Do I really gotta remind you that your tent ain't?”
Damn. She really had forgotten, albeit momentarily, that her tent had been one of the ones destroyed in the day's events. Still, she shakes her head, reaching for the makeshift tent flap. “Sawyer...” She lets his name trail off, not knowing what she wants to say, and ducks out of the tent into the night air.
She doesn't expect him to follow her; he never has before. So she's surprised when she hears footsteps behind her as she walks down the beach, away from the survivors' camp. She lets her boots dangle from her hand by their laces, focusing on the feel of cool, damp sand on her feet, grounding her, and she doesn't turn to see if it really is him behind her.
Until, abruptly, his hand closes around her upper arm and she's whipped around to face him, almost running smack into his bare chest. She shakes her arm away and glares, stepping backwards.
“What the hell're you doin', Freckles?”
She turns around again and can feel him following close behind her. “I'm walking.”
“Hell, woman, I can see that.” She can hear his sarcasm, his frustration, and she can't blame him even as she keeps walking. “You do know you're goin' away from camp.”
She doesn't bother to answer the rather obvious question, though she does stop walking to turn towards the ocean, stooping to roll her pant legs up before stepping into the gently lapping surf, digging her toes into the wet sand. Hearing him sigh behind her, she folds her arms in front of her, holding herself almost as if she's cold.
They stand like that for so long, Kate sinking and Sawyer watching, that she's not even sure if he's still there. Finally she hears the soft sounds of clothing shifting and sand moving and she knows without looking that he's sitting down on the beach behind her. A few more minutes pass and then he clears his throat. “This is a new post-coital tradition, Freckles, tryin' to sink your way to China.”
“Maybe China's not the other side of the world here,” she remarks quietly, so he has to lean forward to hear.
“Cute, Sweetcheeks,” he returns sarcastically, and she can hear he's still irritated at her. “But what, you not gonna ask me to join you?”
She pulls one foot out of the sand and kicks across the water, sending a small splash out into the ocean. She watches the ripples subside before speaking again. “Hasn't stopped you yet, James.”
He arches an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic use of his given name and stands, moving so he's positioned just behind her, close enough to feel her without touching. “Why'd you leave, Kate?”
As he emphasizes her own name, sounding almost hateful, she stiffens and turns, walking back out of the water and onto the beach. Standing. Almost as if waiting for him to follow. He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat; he's not going to give her the satisfaction that easily.
“I don't know what's going to happen.”
“What?” Once again, he has to come closer to hear her, and he still doesn't understand the strange statement. “Hell, Freckles, we ain't known what's gonna happen since the second we landed on this goddamned island. You ain't tellin' me nothin' new.”
She shakes her head. “I meant after.” She finally looks at him, for the first time since she left his tent. “When we're...” She bites her lip and can't say the word 'home.' “Back.”
Oh. He almost looks properly chastised, and steps nearer to her, one arm out to draw her close. She stiffens again and turns away, but he's persistent and struggles with her for a few moments before she gives in and leans against him, arms pulled up to her chest as his surround her securely.
Sawyer doesn't do platitudes. He doesn't do nice, and he sure as hell doesn't do glass half full. He stands there, feeling helpless and completely out of his element, until he decides to change gears altogether. Dipping his head so his lips are barely touching her ear, he speaks slowly, his voice drawling, almost seductive. “Guess ya ain't been listenin' to your mix tape much.”
“What?” She pulls her head back, looking up at him, forehead crinkled in confusion.
He shrugs, smirking when he sees he's gotten her attention. “Or ya wouldn't've up and left.” He tips his head, looking up at the stars, smirk still plainly visible even in the darkness. “How can you just walk away from me, when all I can do is watch you leave...”
“You. Know Phil Collins?”
Knowing he's got her, he gives her a toothy grin. “The 80s...”
Understanding dawns, and she can't help it, her lips tug upwards in an amused half smile. “With the pink clothes.”
“Guilty as charged.” He sobers at his choice of phrasing and lowers his head so their foreheads touch. “Come back to bed, Freckles.”
She considers it, lips pressed together, feeling his warm breath on her face. “Just for tonight.” She closes her eyes briefly, then smirks. “If you promise not to sing.”
chapter 4