sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

(no subject)

Ain't no such thing as butterflies in his stomach or his heart skippin' beats. None of that Wuthering Heights fated-to-be-in-love crap; he ain't no stalker like that damn Heathcliff son of a bitch and Freckles ain't no mournful mooning Cathy.

He never liked that book.

Over the years he's been with a lot of women. From the time he was sixteen, he's romanced 'em. Wined 'em, dined 'em, fooled around with 'em, conned 'em. He hasn't conned every woman he's slept with and he hasn't slept with every woman he's conned. But he hasn't had very many bedtime partners where he didn't have some kind of ulterior motive and he ain't ashamed to admit it: it's what he does. Reminds him of a long-ago conversation he had with Freckles when she wanted something from him. I've got a lot more of everything, but you ain't got carte blanche yet.

Whether or not she knows it, she's got it now.

So he can't help but wonder: what is it she wants right now? Right here, today, when all the stuff they want is just a phone call away and they got a whole damn asteroid at their disposal? If he was the introspective type he might wonder why him: out of all the guys here, why'd she choose him? Damn good thing he ain't never given introspection a second glance; he don't have time for that shit. So he's only a little bit surprised when he finds himself outside the door to her room, like he was drawn there by somethin' inevitable. Fate? He's a damn opportunist. He goes where his libido takes him.

If only that was always true, he wouldn't ever get into so much trouble like he does. If only he could shut it all up, all those damn little voices inside telling him what's right and what's wrong. Mostly he ignores 'em, always has. And then he woke up this morning going... hey there, Freckles. Only she wasn't there. It's a damn good thing he knows how to remedy that.

He ain't got no cards, no flowers, no pretty poems, no backpack full of mangoes. This time all he's got is himself. One of these days, that'll be enough.

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"Is that..."

Two very distinct thoughts battle it out in his brain for supremacy at the same time. The first is damn, that Widmore fella gets around, don't he and the second is no, no no no no, it's too soon for that, ain't it? It was just yesterday. She just hedgin' her bets, same as him?

"Let me see that, Freckles." It's back on the shelf now, but he picks it up again, puts on his reading glasses -- man's got to be sure what he's lookin' at, after all -- then sets it back down with a shake of his head.

"Damn, baby. I'm with you on that bein' about the last thing I expected to see."

He thinks he's real glad she put it back before that second thought has a chance to take root and grow. And because he's glad, he gives her a little grin, pays for his stuff. Opens the box once they step out into the hall, presses one of the little round yellow pills out of its foil-and-plastic casing, pops it into his mouth, swallows.

"Freckles. What's the date today?" The instructions say he's supposed to write that down. Apparently in 2074, men have problems rememberin' when they're supposed to do what.

Some things never change.

Her eyes dart skyward, not quite rolling so much as evading, when she notices him already opening the box, and she idly smooths one hand over the thick loop of hair gathered at the nap of her neck. She glances back over just in time to see him swallow one of the pills.

"February 18th."

Says so right on the ticket she bought this morning.

"Kind of surprised you remember those pregnancy tests. You keep an inventory of all the stuff in your stash back on the island?"

Of course he does; he taps the side of his head like he's some giant scruffy thotful Pooh bear. "Of course I do, sweetheart. It's all right up here." Ain't no ledger books on the island unless you count the one with the manifest, but he didn't write nothin' down in that one before he gave it away. "Don't everyone do that?"

Ever since he was little, he's been doin' it. Counting, keeping track. Ever since he lost his mama and his daddy. Ever since he had to gather up his stuff real fast and follow the nice police officer out of their trailer to the station to wait for his grandpa to come get him and take him to Knoxville.

He's pretty damn sure he never told Freckles about that. Then again, he ain't big on self-disclosure.

(Love you too, Freckles.)

"February 18th. I can remember that. I'll write it on the box when I get back. You still interested in that burger and fries? Make up for the ones we didn't get to eat yesterday?"

"Well, not everyone back there has amassed the collection of stuff that you have," she points out, half-smiling.

She didn't make much of an inventory of what she has back there. She has other people's clothes, shoes she got off a dead body, hair bands that didn't come out of her own bag.

"I don't have much there other than clothes that aren't mine. Think I've got a grand total of one thing I'm attached enough to to care if it winds up missing."

And at the moment, it's packed in the backpack on the floor in her room. It's a lucky thing she hadn't tucked it in her pocket and taken it with her when they went back and got captured. She would've lost it.

Probably for good.

"Yeah." She gives him a small nod. "Think I could still go for that burger."

She'll have to go soon enough, and even though she can't believe the last twenty minutes have gone the way they have, he's given her no reason to leave before she has to.

Besides, it'd be even more suspicious if she did, and where and why she's going aren't questions she's interested in facing.

"Then let's get you that burger, Freckles." For a minute he wonders how come these damn pills don't come with a month's worth of placebos like the kind the ladies take, or the kind they used to take back when he was payin' attention to those things. For a split second the memory of that photo of Clementine grabs at him, and it's lucky he ain't the tuggin'-on-heartstrings type because she's a real pretty baby.

Guess Cass wasn't payin' good enough attention to what she was supposed to have been takin'. Protection my ass, he wants to say, but doesn't. This ain't the time.

The nearest place with decent burgers is the restaurant back at the resort. "There's a burger place in town, but the fries are greasy as hell. You want to try that anyway, or go to the usual hotel restaurant?"

He's feeling this odd stubborn happiness. It's from thinkin' about yesterday and about the phrase gettin' lucky. He sure feels like he did, and he'd like another one of those, please.

But just as odd as that flicker of happiness is, there's an equally odd stubborn insistence that next time's got to be absolutely mutual. Kate's cagey and he knows that. She don't like commitment. She runs.

So is it to her credit or his that she ain't runnin' right now?

She lets out a tiny laugh. "Don't want to make you leave the resort for inferior fries. The restaurant's fine."

Her hand brushes the back of his as she walks alongside him, and self-consciously, she edges just a little bit away.

First he's telling her it's okay if she needs to leave rather than stay over, then he's having her tag along while he buys birth control pills, and she's not sure she wants to know what's on his mind on the way to the restaurant. His presence there burns her side as it is, and half of her focuses on keeping things light and easy and friendly.

The other half of her remembers his hands at her waist, his mouth on hers, and likes the memory as much as it did the real thing.

And can't believe she's not putting some space between them while she can, but it's only a matter of time.

She's used to playing with fire.

This whole thing is so damn weird. Here they are, walkin' down the hall talkin' about what place has the best fries, and not even 24 hours ago they were rollin' in the hay together. And now neither one's mentioning that, or if he does, she don't acknowledge it. That's the kind of thing could drive a man crazy. On the one hand, he don't want her thinkin' it didn't matter to him, 'cause it did and it does. On the other, who wants to seem desperate? Not him. He's a con man. Con as in confidence. If he don't have it -- and show it -- no one will.

And that's how come he stops walking, turns her to face him, puts his hands on her shoulders, and plants a kiss on her lips. Seems like it was gonna happen sooner or later. Why not break the ice right now?

Blood rushes to her face -- to her lips -- and after a heartbeat (two? three? it feels like hers has stopped) her hands flutter to sides of face, idle there for a second, and then (gently) hold him in place while she pulls back.

Once they fall away from him, she passes one hand roughly over her face and hair. There's no one around for him to be testing this time.

No one except her.

(She should go.)

"I thought we were being literal about the burger and fries."

Just for a second, just when their lips meet -- and damn, does she always taste like strawberries? -- he feels like he could almost sort of dwell right here in this moment and not have too many concerns about all those other moments. Like her mouth is so soft and warm and inviting that he could put away the schemes and the cons and the plans and all that stuff.

But no, a pair of soft inviting lips ain't enough to catch all his attention. Not now, or not yet. Maybe when he's old and out of energy and his mind stops thinkin' like it does. Maybe then he might settle with one woman.

Or maybe they could play house together on some asteroid. The concept's tempting. If it wasn't for the little voice going you run, I con, he might even want to give it a shot.

Odds are she's thinkin' along the same lines, so when she pulls back it don't bother him as much as it maybe ought to. He ain't necessarily the possessive type, or maybe he just don't know that about himself yet.

(I've never been in love.)

(The look on her face then, firelight gleamin' off it.)

His hand follows her over her hair; they fall into companionable steps together. "I was bein' literal about it, Freckles. Got to make up for the ones they cleaned up out of my room yesterday." If she can't hear his stomach growlin', she's deaf.

Restaurant ought to be safer. They can sit across from each other at the table, all civilized, and he'll try real hard not to let his body remember that mouth of hers on him yesterday. No, he'll just let her eat her fries and burger, drink her ice-cold Coke, be on his way.

If only he could stop thinkin' about her so damn much.

She can feel something a little helpless reach her eyes for a moment, and she quickly turns her attention toward the wall opposite him until she feels like it's passed.

Months ago -- and she has to stop and think about exactly how long it's been now, on and off the island -- he was telling her that he knew her type, saying he'd been with girls like her before, making comments that made her ask if he was really trying to be a pig or if it just came naturally.

It's been almost nine months. About two on the island, over six here.

Over six.

That's twice as long as she was in Australia, staying with Ray and working on his farm.

And it's about as long as her marriage to Kevin lasted.

And here she is, both worlds and years away from all of that, and the one thing that hasn't changed is that she needs to run.

It's not from the law this time, not from Edward. It's not even from the island's black smoke that killed the pilot and tried to drag Locke off.

Sawyer knew Jack was in that cave-in during their first week on the island and chose not to tell her until he was ready. He let himself get tortured and swindled a kiss out of her, laying a thick guilt trip on her, even when he didn't have what they needed to help Shannon. He told Jack -- while Jack was saving his life -- that he wouldn't do the same for him if their positions were reversed. He used her -- and others -- to get his hands on all the guns from the hatch.

But he's also been on her side every time she butted heads with Jack over going somewhere or doing something dangerous. He's given her what she's asked him for, even if he hasn't always done it right away and had to be convinced or bargained with on his terms. He's comforted her in some of her worst moments, on-island and off, no matter who's been around.

He used to remind her a lot more of Wayne, but now she finds herself thinking Sawyer would never do the things Wayne did.

Even if he does other things she objects to.

She walks along beside him because she can't not do it. Because the sense of motion is just enough to vaguely satisfy her need to propel herself away from who and what she was a moment ago, and sooner or later -- just like something that could've come out of his mouth months ago on the island -- she keeps circling back to him for company anyway.

Like she just can't stay away, and in the same white-hot second she thinks that, she knows he's really under her skin. And she hates him for getting there as much as she hates herself for letting him.

(But she doesn't hate him. Not enough, and that's where the problem's been for a long time.)

It's almost an out-of-body experience for her when she notices her arm's shot out, her hand curved over his shoulder, and that necessary sense of motion is frustrated when she grinds them both to a halt.

She doesn't -- won't -- look at him at first, even when she pulls his shoulder until he faces her, and then her eyes lift to focus on his mouth.

Her attention rocks from his mouth to his eyes and back to his mouth -- what are we doing? she wants to ask -- and then she's on the balls of her feet, mouth pressed to his.

It's better to move -- even if she doesn't know what she's doing -- than to stay still.

He didn't even have to ask or nothin'. No bargaining chips, no conning her into or out of it, no... none of that stuff. None of that artificial stuff. No I'll turn your 30 grand into 3 million by Wednesday. Funny what money does to people, ain't it. No you kiss, I tell. Why did he really do that anyhow, back in the jungle, when he didn't even have the damn inhalers? To prove a point, that's how come. To prove he wasn't what they thought, but somethin' even worse.

To keep people away. That old saying, the one that goes what you don't know can't hurt you? It might be a little optimistic but he gets the gist of it. You don't know there's a man on the rooftop with a sniper rifle aimed at your heart? Hell, you'll have a few happy last moments. Ain't no rooftop snipers here. Just him and Freckles. They could be each others' own private snipers. Steal each others' hearts. If that's the way it goes, that's the way it goes. If it don't, it don't. There's a time and place for pragmatism.

And then there's a time and place to say you know what, Sawyer? Maybe you were right about those pills. He ain't gonna preempt one for the other or nothin'; it's just a thing he makes note of.

(You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh) That Sam fella got it wrong. That kiss he conned Freckles out of back there when he was tied up? Just a kiss. The one he stole from her early on here at the import/export store? Just a kiss. The one she just gave him? Way more than just a kiss and the both of them know it.

So what changed? What changed since you run, I con? When the light bulb clicks on, he smiles real quiet to himself. She's still runnin'. Except this time she switched direction and ran toward him instead of away.

He likes that. Don't mean it's a permanent state of affairs, but he likes it. His hand runs down her hair to the back of her neck, then moves to the side of her face.

"Come on, Freckles." This time, she gets to pick the nature of their burgers and fries. And whichever one she chooses, he's good with it 'cause that kiss she gave him's an answer all its own.

He looks a little bit pleased.

And maybe he should, after yesterday afternoon and the voluntary, no-swindle-needed kiss she just gave him.

The corners of her mouth just barely curl upward, her smile tight but not forced. "Let's get you fed." And get herself fed while they're at it.

The rest of the way to the restaurant, his presence at her side still burns as much as it did before -- maybe more -- and she doesn't make a point of trying to touch him but she doesn't go out of her way to avoid it, either.

She takes her place across one of the restaurant's tables from him, going ahead and scrolling through the computerized menu to get their meal. To keep herself busy as much as anything else.

(Less than three hours from now, she's still got a shuttle to catch.)

"You're gonna have to pick your own condiments," she tells him, turning command of the menu screen over to him.

"Think I'll order it up with the works."

What's he gonna do, say hey, Freckles, how 'bout you 'n' me and a clean bed makes three? Woman wants to eat, she gets to eat. Anyhow, they need their stamina, bein' the active consenting adults they are.

Left-handed, he flicks through and orders his own stuff, and marvels (but only for a second or two) over how irrelevant stuff can be when a man's got somethin' better to look forward to. Seein' as how he ain't the kind to giggle into the palm of his hand and play footsie under no damn table, he lets the pleasure he gets from just bein' here with Freckles shine right out his eyes...

Hang on. What the... oh, hell, Mr. Rochester, he tells himself, don't go turnin' into no damn romantic. Yeah, better to put a swift end to that crap.

This is kind of like walkin' a tightrope. No angle means no script and no script means uncharted territory. Uncharted territory means a man could make a mistake, and makin' a mistake could mean the whole thing gets screwed up. Just like with anything, he don't want to screw it up.

He's done that enough.

So how the hell's he supposed to act? Guess however he is; he leans back in his chair and grins kind of quiet and all. He ain't never had no damn butterflies in his belly before. Not like this. He wishes fate would explain him this: how the hell's he supposed to be full of poise and swagger when he feels like he's fifteen damn years old?

He's got to say something.

"You still up for that movie date, Freckles? We could sit in the back row."

For the first time today, she rolls her eyes, a smile on her face regardless.

"Oh, now we've gone from five years old to sixteen?"

He's shameless, and she shakes her head just a little.

"You let me know when you think your leg'll let you sit still in one spot for two or three hours, and we'll go." She pauses. "To watch."

They can sit in the back seat if he wants, but if she's going to a movie she's going to watch it. Anything that happens besides watching... well, she's not making any guarantees to him. But if it happens, it'll happen when they're not in one of the city's movie theaters.

"What leg." He knows the cure for that, and it don't come from sittin' in a restaurant or walkin' to the pharmacy or none of that; the little box of pills sits in his shirt pocket and as soon as he gets himself a pen, he'll write March 18 down in the next slot just like a good little boy scout.

But for now, the robot's here with two glasses of Coke, and he wonders where the hell they got those regulation fountain glasses that say Coca-Cola on the side in that flowing script. They still make those things? Or are they antiques? And who really cares? Just strikes him as curious, that's all, the way this place is a combination of futuristic stuff and throwbacks to the past.

Right about now he's feelin' like a throwback himself; he can't help but to laugh a smug little laugh. "Fifteen, Freckles. Fifteen, not sixteen. We only leap ten years at a time."

Ten or seventy.

This is a little more like it, though: sittin' around laughin', havin' something cold to drink, a regular good old time. This puts 'em at what, their third age change in 24 hours or less?

"Bet you the leg'll be fine in a day or two. I ain't even limpin' too bad no more, did you notice?" It's been a little bit of a conscious effort not to, but anything for Freckles. Anything for his girl.

His girl. Well, well. If that ain't about the most perilous territory he's been in since the plane crashed on the damn island, he don't know what is.

"Ten years at a time. I'll make a note of that." She crooks a smile at him, her sentiment still the same no matter what age they're suddenly acting. "Did notice you're limping less, though."

But he just got shot in the leg two days ago, and partial magical healing or no, she thinks most of it's just a show.

He's not wild about showing weakness, in her experience. Not unless there's something in it for him.

"But I'd still give it another few days."

And only partly because she'll be gone for two nights.

"You gonna keep me company while it heals like you did with my shoulder?" Looking down, he unwraps the straw from the end, blows the long part across the table at Freckles. "I'm just jokin'. You don't have to." The I can take care of myself is implied, although that don't mean it's a hundred percent honest.

But who cares? Not him. Not when the robot rolls by with two perfectly done burgers that smell like a little slice of heaven and plates heaped tall with french fries, things they couldn't get on the island if they paid for 'em. So what if it was probably healthier that way? If he cared about health, he wouldn't smoke.

Drink. Gamble. Have sex.

(Scratch that last thought.)

"Bon appetit, Freckles." There might be french fry payback to be had for yesterday, but he kind of liked where it led. For the moment he'll let it rest. The lure of food's a powerful one: he wasn't jokin' when he told Freckles he was hungry.

The burger, loaded up with the works, tastes like a million bucks.

She blocks the straw wrapper with one hand -- maybe fifteen is about right -- and presses her lips together in a smile.

"I have been the last few days," she points out, matter-of-fact (and only a little self-conscious). There's no denying it.

Even if their visits haven't been quite the same as usual. As far as she's concerned, they don't need to talk too much about that. Not unless they really have to.

She dumps enough ketchup on her plate for easy fry-dipping, and when she bites into her own hamburger, it's every bit as good as the one she only got part of the way through yesterday.

"Think the apple pie's kind of a requirement after this, too."

The literal apple pie.

"I know you have, Freckles." This time he ain't givin' up his burger. Not 'cause he's some damn cave-man with a ME EAT mentality, but for his own other reasons. Some of 'em have to do with taking a pretty simple delight in watching her get to snack on somethin' besides

(him)

papayas and mussels, and some of 'em have to do with just spendin' time alone with her, and have they really been at this place six months? If so, how come he hasn't absolutely reveled in the fact that out of all the people whatever or whoever it is that brought 'em here could have picked, it picked him and Freckles? Not her and the doc, not Hugo and the dog, not Locke and Babynapper. None of 'em. Was it so this could happen?

Damn, he don't believe in that kind of thing. Things just happen, and this was brewin' for the two of them way before they got yanked out of time and place and drop-kicked here. That ain't to say he ain't glad it happened, though. Put 'em on a scale and weigh 'em: he'd pick this place over the island any day.

Any damn day of the week.

"And I'll be sure to save some room for apple pie, sweetheart." He might need a little help digestin' it, but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. He'll put it this way: his expectations are low, but his hopes are sky-high.

She's rated a sweetheart a couple of times now. That kind of amuses her.

She flashes him a little grin over her burger and reaches for her Coke.

"You mind if I ask you something?" she asks after taking a drink. Considering their circumstances have changed a little bit -- and she's planning on going to a movie with him (eventually) -- she doesn't think a little question is too much to ask.

She won't ask many or he'll start to expect answers from her in return, and there're plenty of answers he could want that she's not exactly willing to give.

"Ask away." He ain't got... a whole lot to hide, anyhow. It's time for fries and they know these are good. And they lead to good things; he dips one in the ketchup and eats it up. If Freckles didn't have a big ole pile of 'em on her own plate, he'd offer her some of his.

But she's got her own, and the cold Coke makes for a fine chaser, and the company's real nice in so many ways. He ain't made no promises in the here and now about bein' on best behavior, but it comes easy for him today. Maybe he's just a little more relaxed than usual, despite havin' been shot a couple days ago.

Will wonders never cease?

"What's on your mind, Freckles?" The straw makes a slurping sound as he reaches the bottom of that Coca-Cola.

This time she reaches for a fry, and she dips it in her ketchup and takes a bit before she says anything else.

"Why Australia?"

He's from Tennessee, she knows. Or at least he lived around there when he was about eight. She saw the envelope he keeps that letter of his in. It says America's Bicentennial, Knoxville, TN right on it.

So what's there for him in Australia?

That ain't the question he might've been expecting, although it's a fair enough one. What's he gonna tell her about it: that he was conned into going there and killing a guy? That he was so hell-bent on revenge he believed what Hibbs told him, that Duckett was actually Sawyer? That he found out too late, got drunk, got in a bar-room brawl with some government someone-or-other, spent the night in jail, and then got deported 'cause he broke a damn coffee mug?

Hell no. In fact, his normal M.O. would be to turn it right around on her: look her in the face, arms folded across his chest, and go how come you were in Australia?

Yeah, that'd be his usual way of doin' things. But things with Freckles are anything but usual, so he makes an exception. Sure. He can answer.

"Had some business to attend to." And then he goes ahead and adds one more thing. "A favor for a friend."

Sawyer's definition of business isn't necessarily the same as hers, and she's pretty sure she's not imagining that his demeanor changes just a little.

She picks up another fry and dips it in ketchup just like the last.

"Favor for a friend." She gives him a small smile. "That's nice of you."

In the two months they spent living on the island, he didn't do many favors. Then again, she'd guess he didn't consider many of the people there his friends, either.

"You get to stay there long? It's not so bad there."

Well. Ain't she just full of questions... and ain't that his old self talkin'.

(Tiger don't change its stripes.)

"Not too long, Freckles. And so far as not so bad goes, ain't nothin' to do there except drink anyhow." And a man can only take so much of that before he starts head-butting public officials.

Like he knew what he was doin': conning people ain't got a damn thing in common with killing 'em, except for the fact they're both illegal. So what if the concept of drinkin' to forget sounded real damn good to him, and goin' to jail for a barroom brawl was so damn preferable to bein' out there on the streets?

Everything's upside down and backwards in Australia anyhow. It's one place he wouldn't mind never seein' again.

"What'd you do while you were there?" Fair's fair.