(lost) Summer Camp
Title: Summer Camp
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Hurley, Locke, Claire
Spoilers: Through Eggtown
Prompt: lostsquee - "Only from disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything."; un_love_you - "This cancels out the hurt."
Summary: Sawyer and Hurley are roomies; set immediately following the events of Eggtown.
“Dude, is that a handprint on your face?”
Sawyer pushed away the thoughts he had been so deeply absorbed in and discovered himself to be standing in the doorway of his appropriated bedroom in naught but his boxers. And the swollen welt of a woman-sized handprint stinging on his cheek. A departing gift from the devil of a woman with a hell of back hand.
He looked over at Hurley who was happily sitting on the couch with a smug grin spread wide across his face. He was obviously enjoying himself which left Sawyer livid.
“Put a lid on it.”
It also apparently undermined his ability to formulate a decent comeback. He let out a guttural sigh, grabbed his bag and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned up against the inside wall and closed his eyes.
If he tried really hard, he could imagine he was back in the States. A Five Star Hotel on some gullible broad’s dime. Or hell, even in a shithole in Bumfuck, Iowa. Anywhere was better than here. It had been easy to lie to Kate. To convince her that they could stay on the island. He never had any intention of actually following through with it; he had only wanted to know if she would stay in one place long enough for him to love her properly. He raised his hand up to his still-aching check. Well, now he had his answer.
Sawyer opened his eyes and took in the scene before him-dirty towels littered the floor and the faucet on the sink was dripping.
“There ain’t no maid service here, Tommy Boy,” he shouted at Hurley through the door, “And I sure as hell ain’t your mother.”
There was a muffled sound from the other side of the door that sounded like laughter, and irritated further, Sawyer kicked the towels into a corner and tightened the faucet. Turning on the water in the shower, he allowed the room to be filled with steam and stood before the mirror as it fogged up. He ran his hand over his face and grimaced. He was sick of looking like a damned homeless person, even if he felt like one. He opened the cabinet behind the mirror, searching, but all he found was a pink plastic razor and some green shaving cream with aloe in it. He scowled, and as he squirted the foamy substance into his hand and began applying it onto his face, he pondered his poor luck at having picked this feminine house out of all the others he could have chosen.
After an abysmal shave, he stepped under the scalding water of the shower and let it burn his skin. He washed himself with the floral soap and shampoo that had been left behind by the house’s previous occupant and muttered to himself about smelling like a damn meadow before climbing out the shower and folding the last clean towel around his waist.
He wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at his reflection, frowning at the five o’clock shadow left behind by the plastic razor and his hair, which clung to his face like static cling. As he pulled it back into a ponytail, he thought of how he should have asked Kate to cut it before he had insulted her and sent her back to Jack. Where she belonged. At least that is what he would tell himself.
He dressed quickly and was fully prepared to sink into a chair and finish the dog-eared copy of The Invention of Morel he had found, but to his dismay, during his time in the shower, Hurley had seized his seat of choice and had moved it closer to the television. His tongue sticking out from between his lips in concentration, Hurley was sprawled across the chair, clutching an ancient-looking black joystick. As Sawyer entered, Hurley looked up from the TV and immediately burst out laughing. “What did you do in there? You look like Steven Seagal.”
Sawyer scoffed as he walked over to the space where the chair had been and picked up his book off the end table. “Yeah, well, ain’t you seen a mirror lately? You’re startin’ to look like Teen Wolf.”
Hurley stopped laughing and ran his hand over the ever-growing mutton chops on the side of his face but continued to smile. He watched as Sawyer sat down in a huff on the couch, kicked his bare feet up onto the coffee table, and opened his book. Hurley tossed the controller in his hands onto the floor and fished a bag out of the cushions of his chair and held it out to Sawyer.
“Cheeto?”
He looked up from his book with a scowl on his face. “What?”
Hurley looked down at the bag. “Dharma-brand cheese puff?”
“I may have grown up in a trailer, but that don’t make me trailer trash. I ain’t walkin’ ‘round with orange gunk stained to my fingers and stuck in my teeth.”
“Dude, we’ve been living off fruit, fish, and food fit for a bomb shelter for two months. Live a little.”
Sawyer glared at Hurley, but reached his hand into the bag, grabbed a puff and threw it into his mouth. His features softened as he chewed.
Hurley looked at him with raised brows and nodded. “Eh?”
“Disgusting,” he replied, but flashed a dimple and reached into the bag for a handful. He set down his book as he chewed and looked over at the TV. “Atari? Really?”
Hurley nodded eagerly and then scowled. “I used to be a lot better at Pong.”
“What is this, 1977?” Sawyer looked down at his fingers which were completely covered in orange residue.
“Where have you been? This whole place is like a time warp or something. The hippie bus, the dinosaur of a computer in the hatch, ping pong, Xanadu. I feel, like, out of place because I’m not dressed in a leisure suit and a gold chain.”
“Thank God for that,” Sawyer muttered under his breath and frowning, wiped his hand on his pants.
“You wanna play?” Hurley asked, picking up the joystick and offering it to him. Sawyer eyed it suspiciously and shook his head. Hurley sighed and tossed it back onto the floor. “I’m not sure what’s worse-the beach, all Robinson Crusoe-like; or here-insane, deranged summer camp that you can never leave.”
“Yeah,” Sawyer snorted, “with the camp counselor from Hell.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Locke entered, looking as content as Sawyer had ever seen him. It gave him the creeps.
“Speak of the devil,” Sawyer muttered and Hurley snickered.
“James. Hugo.” Locke nodded in each of their directions.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Sawyer asked, his voice ripe with sarcasm.
“I am here to invite you both to the picnic that is being held just outside.”
Hurley and Sawyer eyed each other with looks of incredulity on their faces.
“Claire is feeling unwell today, and Jerome-”
“Who?” Sawyer interjected.
“Jerome,” Locke repeated forcefully, “suggested a picnic to get her mind off things.”
Sawyer began to speak, but Hurley cut him off. “We’ll be there.”
Locke nodded, smiled awkwardly, and disappeared out the door, closing it behind him.
“What are you? My social director?” Sawyer scowled at Hurley.
“You got something better to do?” Hurley asked, but when Sawyer opened his mouth to say something, he added, “Rhetorical question.”
Sawyer sighed angrily and settled back into the couch with his book. A few moments of silence passed while Sawyer focused on his book and Hurley stared at Sawyer, studying his face.
“So…” he finally spoke, much to Sawyer’s annoyance. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Sawyer looked over the top of his book at Hurley who was still staring at him with an indiscernible look on his face.
“What could I possibly have to talk about with you?”
Hurley rolled his eyes. “I have ears, Sawyer. We all have ears. And, um, believe it or not, noises carry on that beach. And through walls.”
Sawyer stared at him blankly.
“You and Kate, man!” he exclaimed, wagging his eyebrows.
Sawyer threw the book down on the couch and rose to his feet. “Okay. You win.”
Hurley grinned triumphantly as Sawyer moved toward the door and held it open. “Not another word about Kate,” he warned as Hurley walked past him and out into the court yard.
“Scout’s honor,” Hurley replied, holding up three fingers. “So what do you suppose is for lunch?”
Sawyer inadvertently brushed his hand past the spot on his cheek where he could still feel traces of Kate. His hand dropped to his side and he shook his head. “I dunno. I’m sure Locke clubbed a baby seal or something just for the occasion.”
Hurley chuckled and as they neared the picnic tables, Sawyer felt the tension leave his shoulders as if weight was being lifted with every step he took away from the house. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and after having reciprocated hellos and welcoming nods, he unleashed his grin and took a seat at Claire’s table.
Hurley sat down beside him and took in the feast and everyone who had gathered to enjoy it. Sawyer clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, you still got the hot dog eating contest in the bag.”
Hurley frowned and gave him a small shove, but Sawyer lost his balance and toppled over into the grass, landing with a cry of “Son of a bitch!” As he pulled himself up and brushed the grass from his clothes, he could hear the sound of Hurley’s wheezing laughter coupled with Claire’s. Sawyer returned to his place on the bench with exaggerated movements. His face contorted into a scowl, but the sound of Claire’s laughter and the sight of a smile on her face stripped away the anger from his face and replaced it with a smile of his own.
“I am going to regret that later, aren’t I?” Hurley asked, wiping his eyes.
“Yes. Yes, you are.”