Fic: Both Sides Now (1/1)
Title: Both Sides Now
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet, implied Sawyer/Kate
Word Count: 1,226
Summary: It’s love’s illusions that she recalls. For the 50scenes Prompt #35 - Moonlight. Spoilers through 5.09 - Namaste.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title and summary courtesy of Joni Mitchell.
Author’s Notes: This is ANGST. With capital letters. First in a three-story arc, based on the official reintroduction of everyone’s least/most favorite love quadrilateral as of “Namaste.” This part was originally going to be longer, but I don’t think it needs to be, really - serves its purpose as is.
Both Sides Now
She had fooled herself into believing it was an impossibility; or else, had fooled herself into thinking she believed as much. Part of her knows that she never really got over the bite at the back of her throat, the nagging burn that spread sometimes at the base of skull that reminded her - every time his lips pressed against hers or his hands slid up her sides or his arms wrapped around her for no reason at all - that this wasn’t built to last. She knows that she’s not strong enough to believe in forever, to give herself over entirely to the sweet abandon that would threaten to take her, to sweep her up when she fell asleep beside him, when she woke up before him to find him curled around her - she knows she’s not the type that’s meant for falling in love. She never has been.
But damn it, she’d been so very sure that she was wrong.
She feels her stomach drop as the smile creeps across her face when she answers the door and finds Jack standing behind it, but the sensation is quickly countered by the jagged claws of guilt as they threaten to rip her to shreds - she has a past as anyone does, but her present is all that matters; a present that she hopes to God will be her future, one that sits waiting for her next to the sofa, bespectacled and relaxed in his chair as he makes his way through the tattered Dostoyevsky paperback she’d recommended to him a few days prior. She hugs Jack, and the feeling of him pressed against her isn’t what it once was, doesn’t fit like it used to - it feels familiar, but it doesn’t feel like home.
She watches from the window when Jack finally departs, a voyeur from the shadows, and nothing seems important until she catches the pausing silhouette on the porch next door, lingering in the background with eyes riveted to the scene, to the one half of the pair that Juliet calls her own. She sees the way he looks at her, with eyes that Juliet can’t quite place, with emotions she doesn’t yet know, and that scares her more than anything - the things she doesn’t know about him; things that Kate Austen does. He only waves, and somehow that stings more than if he’d done anything else, because it hurts him, staying away from her; she can see that much for certain as he turns to come back in, and she feels responsible - she loves him, more than she’d believed she was capable of loving anyone, and to see him in pain makes her sick to her stomach.
She’s pouring herself a glass of wine when he makes his way into the kitchen, marking his page and setting his book next to the coffee pot, his glasses folded atop the well-worn cover for safe keeping, watching her with tired eyes as he fetches himself a can of Dharma’s finest. He pops the tabs, and the hiss makes her cringe as she swallows the last of her merlot hard like a shot; he glances towards her questioningly, his gaze softening as he asks her what’s wrong.
She doesn’t know where to begin, so she only smiles, lips tight, and kisses him before slipping off to bed.
It’s long past midnight when he stirs. She knows he’s not asleep, knows he never was, but hopes that he’s not as observant as she - he can’t be, because he disentangles himself from her limbs with the care of an artist, with a thoughtfulness she’s only ever known from him. She feels his absence like weight upon her chest, a tightening noose, and she can’t bring herself to raise her head, to turn and follow the outline of his legs as he slips into the same jeans he’d worn all day, shrugs on a button-up and tiptoes towards the door, palming it open and spinning on his heel to ease it shut again, to make it seem like he was never there - she can’t make herself watch as the man she loves leaves her behind. She shudders, even though the nights are growing warmer, and her heart sinks as her ankle brushes over the place where his body heat still lingers in the sheets. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, curling in upon herself as everything seems to shrink, as her head begins to spin and she fights a wave of nausea, stifling the retch in her stomach that dies into a sob as she suffocates her grief with her pillow case. She can’t look, but she doesn’t have to: she doesn’t need to see it to know who he’s leaving their bed for.
She feels empty, hollow - so very different from what she’s grown used to, that buoyant sort of high that makes her heart flutter when he looks at her, that makes her feel safe when he holds her, makes her feel sure and beautiful and loved when they’re together - alive when they make love, and whole when he says her name.
It’s unsettling, the fact that she ever let herself become this person in the first place; this person so in love after so long a time spent alone. Losing that, though - feeling it slip through her fingers because she’s not enough to keep him, because she’s not her - losing James is heartbreaking.
She thought she was in control, she thought she could keep herself in check, protect herself from the inevitable result of anything she ever wanted: it’s devastating end. She knew him, knew this place, knew the variables and most of all, she knew herself, and she was sure that she manage this, could keep it from turning into something bigger than them both.
She couldn’t have known, really, but she probably should have - this wasn’t science, wasn’t logic; it didn’t play by the rules.
The other side of the bed is cold when her hand slides across it, and the tears on her cheeks feel sharp, like knives - she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d broken the skin, somehow, invisible scars torn open to remind her of this, to sear it against her soul, scorching the edges of every perfect memory she has of them together so that they look soiled, bitter; so that when she looks in the mirror she knows that whatever she thought they’d had - they could have had - is an illusion; something temporary and imagined and not really there at all. She is as forgettable as the flicker of the sun, it’s sparkle on the water. She is transient, a warm body; faceless and insignificant, and she knows this now because every single time she’s ever fallen in love, she hasn’t been enough. For a while, she’d truly believed that this was different, that this was real. Honest. Permanent. Beautiful. The reality is that she’s always been best at lying to herself; because every time, she’s the other woman, and that’s never going to change.
She thought she knew what she was getting into. She should have known she didn’t have a clue.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet, implied Sawyer/Kate
Word Count: 1,226
Summary: It’s love’s illusions that she recalls. For the 50scenes Prompt #35 - Moonlight. Spoilers through 5.09 - Namaste.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title and summary courtesy of Joni Mitchell.
Author’s Notes: This is ANGST. With capital letters. First in a three-story arc, based on the official reintroduction of everyone’s least/most favorite love quadrilateral as of “Namaste.” This part was originally going to be longer, but I don’t think it needs to be, really - serves its purpose as is.
Both Sides Now
She had fooled herself into believing it was an impossibility; or else, had fooled herself into thinking she believed as much. Part of her knows that she never really got over the bite at the back of her throat, the nagging burn that spread sometimes at the base of skull that reminded her - every time his lips pressed against hers or his hands slid up her sides or his arms wrapped around her for no reason at all - that this wasn’t built to last. She knows that she’s not strong enough to believe in forever, to give herself over entirely to the sweet abandon that would threaten to take her, to sweep her up when she fell asleep beside him, when she woke up before him to find him curled around her - she knows she’s not the type that’s meant for falling in love. She never has been.
But damn it, she’d been so very sure that she was wrong.
She feels her stomach drop as the smile creeps across her face when she answers the door and finds Jack standing behind it, but the sensation is quickly countered by the jagged claws of guilt as they threaten to rip her to shreds - she has a past as anyone does, but her present is all that matters; a present that she hopes to God will be her future, one that sits waiting for her next to the sofa, bespectacled and relaxed in his chair as he makes his way through the tattered Dostoyevsky paperback she’d recommended to him a few days prior. She hugs Jack, and the feeling of him pressed against her isn’t what it once was, doesn’t fit like it used to - it feels familiar, but it doesn’t feel like home.
She watches from the window when Jack finally departs, a voyeur from the shadows, and nothing seems important until she catches the pausing silhouette on the porch next door, lingering in the background with eyes riveted to the scene, to the one half of the pair that Juliet calls her own. She sees the way he looks at her, with eyes that Juliet can’t quite place, with emotions she doesn’t yet know, and that scares her more than anything - the things she doesn’t know about him; things that Kate Austen does. He only waves, and somehow that stings more than if he’d done anything else, because it hurts him, staying away from her; she can see that much for certain as he turns to come back in, and she feels responsible - she loves him, more than she’d believed she was capable of loving anyone, and to see him in pain makes her sick to her stomach.
She’s pouring herself a glass of wine when he makes his way into the kitchen, marking his page and setting his book next to the coffee pot, his glasses folded atop the well-worn cover for safe keeping, watching her with tired eyes as he fetches himself a can of Dharma’s finest. He pops the tabs, and the hiss makes her cringe as she swallows the last of her merlot hard like a shot; he glances towards her questioningly, his gaze softening as he asks her what’s wrong.
She doesn’t know where to begin, so she only smiles, lips tight, and kisses him before slipping off to bed.
It’s long past midnight when he stirs. She knows he’s not asleep, knows he never was, but hopes that he’s not as observant as she - he can’t be, because he disentangles himself from her limbs with the care of an artist, with a thoughtfulness she’s only ever known from him. She feels his absence like weight upon her chest, a tightening noose, and she can’t bring herself to raise her head, to turn and follow the outline of his legs as he slips into the same jeans he’d worn all day, shrugs on a button-up and tiptoes towards the door, palming it open and spinning on his heel to ease it shut again, to make it seem like he was never there - she can’t make herself watch as the man she loves leaves her behind. She shudders, even though the nights are growing warmer, and her heart sinks as her ankle brushes over the place where his body heat still lingers in the sheets. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, curling in upon herself as everything seems to shrink, as her head begins to spin and she fights a wave of nausea, stifling the retch in her stomach that dies into a sob as she suffocates her grief with her pillow case. She can’t look, but she doesn’t have to: she doesn’t need to see it to know who he’s leaving their bed for.
She feels empty, hollow - so very different from what she’s grown used to, that buoyant sort of high that makes her heart flutter when he looks at her, that makes her feel safe when he holds her, makes her feel sure and beautiful and loved when they’re together - alive when they make love, and whole when he says her name.
It’s unsettling, the fact that she ever let herself become this person in the first place; this person so in love after so long a time spent alone. Losing that, though - feeling it slip through her fingers because she’s not enough to keep him, because she’s not her - losing James is heartbreaking.
She thought she was in control, she thought she could keep herself in check, protect herself from the inevitable result of anything she ever wanted: it’s devastating end. She knew him, knew this place, knew the variables and most of all, she knew herself, and she was sure that she manage this, could keep it from turning into something bigger than them both.
She couldn’t have known, really, but she probably should have - this wasn’t science, wasn’t logic; it didn’t play by the rules.
The other side of the bed is cold when her hand slides across it, and the tears on her cheeks feel sharp, like knives - she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d broken the skin, somehow, invisible scars torn open to remind her of this, to sear it against her soul, scorching the edges of every perfect memory she has of them together so that they look soiled, bitter; so that when she looks in the mirror she knows that whatever she thought they’d had - they could have had - is an illusion; something temporary and imagined and not really there at all. She is as forgettable as the flicker of the sun, it’s sparkle on the water. She is transient, a warm body; faceless and insignificant, and she knows this now because every single time she’s ever fallen in love, she hasn’t been enough. For a while, she’d truly believed that this was different, that this was real. Honest. Permanent. Beautiful. The reality is that she’s always been best at lying to herself; because every time, she’s the other woman, and that’s never going to change.
She thought she knew what she was getting into. She should have known she didn’t have a clue.