Fic: Exodus (1/1)
Title: Exodus
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 800
Summary: He doesn’t like it when she has to go away. For the 50scenes Prompt #12 - Distance. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just a little post-finale angst up a slightly different alley, this time.
Exodus
He doesn’t like it when she has to go away. Whether it’s on an errand that lasts no more than a few hours, or out to one construction site or another for a day or two to lend a hand with the machinery, he misses her presence, feels when she’s not just a short walk away, wherever it is he happens to be. He doesn’t like it, but he can’t deny that some days, he lives for her return; the way she lets him hold her soft, pliant body just a little closer when she crawls into the bed, warming the side she’d left cool for however long in her absence, or the way she burrows against him without reservations when she’s missed his touch for any length of time. He hates when she’s gone, but he loves when she comes back, so it evens out in the end, he thinks; that he can wake up with her curled tightly around him, the sun streaming in through the curtains as it rises and illuminates the bare lines of her back, the dip of her shoulders and the curve of her hips, and even if his eyes are still closed, clinging to sleep and the heat of her, her heartbeat under his fingers, his hand draped lazily over her collarbone, the other tucked just beneath her breasts; even so, he can see her, can taste her in the air and smell the sweetness that is unmistakably her, and that inescapably belongs to him.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, a gentle voice that says everything and nothing to him, urging him to wakefulness, and he grins without thinking as his eyelids slide tentatively open, testing the light enveloping them. “Mornin’ gorgeous,” he growls in the direction of that sleep-blurred vision of pale cream and gold ducking in and out of his line of sight, his shoulders tensing and then relaxing as he lets out a yawn, stretching just a little before he realizes that he’s not in a bed, that his arm can only reach so high before it hits the call button or knocks out the reading light; that the woman looking down at him is leaning over a line of empty seats, each plush grey and patterned with colorful geometrical shapes that cause a vague pressure behind his eyes that feels a little like a hangover; they look like their from the fucking 70’s, and that bothers him for reasons he can’t exactly explain.
He blinks once, twice, and the vision from his dreams begins to melt away. He can see how he was confused; the chick with her hand on his shoulder’s blonde as well, the same sort of soft curls in her hair - lazy yellow twists that carry the early hours of a morning spent in bed with them through the rest of the day. And it’s not to say that this pretty thing ain’t a looker, but she’s not the woman he’d seen in his sleep; this girl’s about to pop, given the size of her gut, and the way she stands, slightly off balance and completely unsure; the way carries the weight on her slender frame with a hand on her baby bump tells him she got knocked-up without a game plan. He’s not unfamiliar with the scenario, and he almost pities her, until he sees the shine of determination in her gaze, caught stark in the overhead lighting; the dream girl looked like that, had eyes like that. He sucks in a breath, and it tastes different - wrong; stale and recycled and nothing like the crisp, fresh warmth he remembers from somewhere... somewhere else.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he leers a little, eyeing her up and down because that’s what he does with women, even the pregnant ones. “Thought you was somebody else.”
And the girl smiles back - no harm, no foul. But as the vision of the woman from his dream slips further and further from his reach, he can’t help but sigh a little, can’t help but frown at the seat pocket in front of him, resting his head on the hard plastic of his duly-secured tray table as people file past - some fast, some slow, some in a rush and some in no hurry at all to get to whatever Los Angeles has waiting for them - and for some reason, he feels like it has nothing, has less for him than it ever did, because there’s something missing and just because he can’t put his finger on what it is don’t mean it ain’t there.
He can’t remember the dream at all now, he realizes, and he frowns because it was a damn good dream. Or else, he’s pretty sure it was.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 800
Summary: He doesn’t like it when she has to go away. For the 50scenes Prompt #12 - Distance. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just a little post-finale angst up a slightly different alley, this time.
Exodus
He doesn’t like it when she has to go away. Whether it’s on an errand that lasts no more than a few hours, or out to one construction site or another for a day or two to lend a hand with the machinery, he misses her presence, feels when she’s not just a short walk away, wherever it is he happens to be. He doesn’t like it, but he can’t deny that some days, he lives for her return; the way she lets him hold her soft, pliant body just a little closer when she crawls into the bed, warming the side she’d left cool for however long in her absence, or the way she burrows against him without reservations when she’s missed his touch for any length of time. He hates when she’s gone, but he loves when she comes back, so it evens out in the end, he thinks; that he can wake up with her curled tightly around him, the sun streaming in through the curtains as it rises and illuminates the bare lines of her back, the dip of her shoulders and the curve of her hips, and even if his eyes are still closed, clinging to sleep and the heat of her, her heartbeat under his fingers, his hand draped lazily over her collarbone, the other tucked just beneath her breasts; even so, he can see her, can taste her in the air and smell the sweetness that is unmistakably her, and that inescapably belongs to him.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, a gentle voice that says everything and nothing to him, urging him to wakefulness, and he grins without thinking as his eyelids slide tentatively open, testing the light enveloping them. “Mornin’ gorgeous,” he growls in the direction of that sleep-blurred vision of pale cream and gold ducking in and out of his line of sight, his shoulders tensing and then relaxing as he lets out a yawn, stretching just a little before he realizes that he’s not in a bed, that his arm can only reach so high before it hits the call button or knocks out the reading light; that the woman looking down at him is leaning over a line of empty seats, each plush grey and patterned with colorful geometrical shapes that cause a vague pressure behind his eyes that feels a little like a hangover; they look like their from the fucking 70’s, and that bothers him for reasons he can’t exactly explain.
He blinks once, twice, and the vision from his dreams begins to melt away. He can see how he was confused; the chick with her hand on his shoulder’s blonde as well, the same sort of soft curls in her hair - lazy yellow twists that carry the early hours of a morning spent in bed with them through the rest of the day. And it’s not to say that this pretty thing ain’t a looker, but she’s not the woman he’d seen in his sleep; this girl’s about to pop, given the size of her gut, and the way she stands, slightly off balance and completely unsure; the way carries the weight on her slender frame with a hand on her baby bump tells him she got knocked-up without a game plan. He’s not unfamiliar with the scenario, and he almost pities her, until he sees the shine of determination in her gaze, caught stark in the overhead lighting; the dream girl looked like that, had eyes like that. He sucks in a breath, and it tastes different - wrong; stale and recycled and nothing like the crisp, fresh warmth he remembers from somewhere... somewhere else.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he leers a little, eyeing her up and down because that’s what he does with women, even the pregnant ones. “Thought you was somebody else.”
And the girl smiles back - no harm, no foul. But as the vision of the woman from his dream slips further and further from his reach, he can’t help but sigh a little, can’t help but frown at the seat pocket in front of him, resting his head on the hard plastic of his duly-secured tray table as people file past - some fast, some slow, some in a rush and some in no hurry at all to get to whatever Los Angeles has waiting for them - and for some reason, he feels like it has nothing, has less for him than it ever did, because there’s something missing and just because he can’t put his finger on what it is don’t mean it ain’t there.
He can’t remember the dream at all now, he realizes, and he frowns because it was a damn good dream. Or else, he’s pretty sure it was.