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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Now he can lean back and smile. "That's good, 'cause I got a shot-up leg and any doc's gonna tell me the key to keepin' it gettin' all stiff is to exercise it." If it wasn't for the feel of the gauze and bandages against his thigh, his jeans rubbing against all that, he might just about forget he's shot up. It's a dull ache, a background thing, and he ain't in love with Freckles. That's ridiculous. He just ain't feelin' it 'cause it's healing.

Right?

So why the hell is he so off-balance? It's not like he hasn't done this before. He's done it a million times.

Sure. Back in the real world, with a briefcase full of pretend cash on a shelf, a satisfied woman in his bed, a fancy suit hangin' in the closet. He ain't never done this on an asteroid, for no stakes except the stakes of the heart instead of the wallet. There's no angle but the angle of honesty, and he could say in a game of I Never that he's never been honest in a relationship with a lady before.

Damn, baby. First time for everything.

I never fell so hard.

"Ladies first." His eyes scan the room again but he don't pay none of it too much mind. She didn't say no to a walk, and that's a step -- no pun intended -- in the right direction.

Her smile crooks -- it really lays on the charm when he dimples up like that -- but she lets him be gallant and follow her out.

Even though she's not completely sure she trusts that he's just being chivalrous. It could be that he's looking for another opportunity to scope out the stuff she's got lying around. Like the ticket.

That's fine. If that's what he's doing, he can do it.

Letting herself out, she holds the door open for him. "Speaking of that leg, how's it doing?"

"It ain't so bad, Freckles." He casts a passing glance at somethin' lying out there on the nightstand, but he ain't gonna take the time right now to try and see what it is. Her stuff, her business. The sanctity of stuff is somethin' he knows all about.

But since she asked, he tries real hard not to limp. He ain't gunnin' for sympathy or nothin' like that. But what hurts hurts and he ain't never been real good at hidin' that. Even when the doc and Al-Jazeera tortured him, he didn't try pretendin' it didn't hurt.

He just asked for more.

Once they're outside the door and he hears that telltale little click, he drapes his arm gentle-like around Freckles' shoulder. That ain't got nothin' to to do with his leg neither; it just feels good.

"Thought I'd see if I could interest you in a burger and fries again."

It's only half innuendo.

The door's barely locked behind them before his arm's around her; it's unintentional when her hip bumps his, and words die on her tongue for a second.

He's not going to make this easy, and she shouldn't be surprised. When has she ever known him to?

She arches an eyebrow up at him. "You talking literal or figurative?"

One she's happy to show some interest in. The other she's been thinking hard about her odds of resisting since last night.

Well, there's a question for a man. One eyebrow raised, he glances over at her. "The way I see, it, Freckles, one's kind of a necessity and the other's up to you."

He ain't sayin' which is which, but she ain't stupid. Kate's gotta know after the necessity's taken care of -- after the food's eaten -- whatever else happens has to be decided between the two of 'em. He'll be happy to spend more time with her either way, but he'll be real happy if she goes for the figurative.

Without a whole lot of apology, he presses the button for the elevator. Stairs ain't that much fun for his leg yet.

Her lips press together in a slow smile, but she doesn't say anything at first.

She's got enough time for this walk and a stop somewhere for the burger and fries they didn't exactly finish yesterday before she'll have to extract herself to come back, shove a few things in her bag, and hop on her shuttle.

In a way, now that they've crossed this imaginary line in the sand, she feels a little like any time she spends with him is dangerous. Putting a time limit on it could make things safer.

Theoretically.

Her gaze drops to his thigh, as if she could see the wound through his jeans and whatever bandages he has on underneath. "Well, you let me know if your leg starts bothering you, and I'll escort you right back. Okay?"

He seems pretty intent on this walk, and going to the shops shouldn't be too bad. After the physical exertion of sex twice in one afternoon, she guesses they already haven't done his leg any favors. But he's the one with the bullet wound. He can decide how he's feeling.

The elevator arrives with a ding, and she steps through the open doors with him. She can't help thinking this shouldn't be so awkward, but she guesses that's what happens when you mix girls who don't do one-night stands with guys who claim they've never been in love.

Why the hell's this bein' so damn awkward, he wants to know. Inside the elevator he leans against the wall, resting his leg. Flexing it, relaxing it.

"Just keeping it loose." He might be talkin' about more than just his leg. What he'd like to do is take her in his arms, have a little fun. Right here: why not? But he ain't so sure she'd go for it, for one thing. What they did yesterday, it was just spontaneous as hell. No one planned it. She didn't come to his room to jump him; it just kind of evolved. And that's the problem. He ain't used to working these things without a script, or if there ain't no script, at least there's usually an outline.

His guess is it's gonna be uncomfortable until one or the other of 'em does or says something about it. Might as well be him.

"You know yesterday?" His eyes stay on her like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse runnin' across a damn field. He nods one time, gives her a dimpled grin. "I wasn't expectin' that. But I liked it, Freckles. Hope you did too."

Her smile more lopsided than ever, she averts her eyes briefly. Even then she's all too aware of him watching her.

"Don't see how I couldn't know yesterday."

She only thought about it all night until she finally fell asleep.

If she hadn't pulled that stunt with the french fry, would he have ended up kissing her at some point anyway? He does have a history of doing it.

She bites the inside of her lip for a second before looking his way again.

"Sorry I skipped out. Have enough trouble sleeping in my own bed sometimes, let alone someone else's."

She didn't answer his implied question, at least not in so many words, but he ain't insecure enough to ask again. If she hadn't liked it, she didn't have to stay for the second round.

All in all, it'd be better if she didn't apologize no more for leavin'. "Sweetheart, you want to sleep in your own bed, I ain't gonna stand in your way." Even as he says it he knows it's only halfway true: he'd be pretty damn happy if she stayed. But he ain't no sappy wimpy romantic and neither is she, and she can go wherever she wants whenever she wants. He saw at a real young age what happens when one person in a relationship tries to tell the other what to do, an he ain't gonna be like his daddy. All angry, all possessive. Nope, not him.

I guess that takes cuddlin' off the table. That's what he told Ana's backside as she walked away after him and her did the horizontal tango. Least this time, Kate didn't jump him just to get a damn gun.

"But if you ever change your mind, I'll keep you warm."

That's one promise he'll make good on. Tentatively and real, real quiet, he moves just a fraction closer.

Just a fraction.

Her eyes size him up mildly one second and edge away from him the next, suddenly eager to take advantage of the distraction of the doors opening onto the lobby. "I'll keep that in mind."

(It almost bothers her when it occurs to her that she'd like it.)

She's not trying to avoid him -- saying she was busy when he showed up at her door would've done that well enough -- but she's...

(She just takes the plane because that's the one thing in the whole world that Kate does care about, she hears Edward's voice, matter-of-fact with an audible sneer. She has no attachments.

He was only ever half right about her.)

She's trying to be realistic here. She should've let herself have fewer attachments over the last three years.

Briefly, the very tip of her tongue is visible between her lips. "Doesn't look bad in here for a place that had a shootout in it two days ago."

And besides that, there's the fact that he's still not really her type.

When he shakes his head and smiles, there are dimples evident on his cheeks. For once, he ain't makin' 'em pop out on purpose. Imagine that: a genuine smile over stuff gettin' shot up. Him and Freckles, they spent most of the shootout downstairs in the garage and he ain't been back there since they got back from the city. Out here, there's a little bit of damage but not a whole lot.

"Good thing repair robots don't need no sleep." They could just keep goin' and goin' on fixing stuff, he imagines, without a break or nothin'. It's a crap job but he don't have to do it, so he don't care. Idly, one of his hands goes to a bullet hole in the wall; a few cracks radiate out from it. That could've been his leg. Hell, it was his leg.

He'd take one for Freckles any damn day. It's a change for him, that kind of behavior: he's usually the kind of man who steps out of the way of a moving car, not one who walks into it. And all 'cause it might harm a hair on her pretty head.

What is it about her, he wonders, that makes him act like that? It ain't just to get her into bed. He would've done near anything for her even without that promise dangling. Hell, he did do it without expectations. That ache in his leg? It don't have squat to do with tryin' to impress Freckles. What it has to do with is this unexpected and damn unusual protective streak. The only thing he's ever protected before was his own sorry ass.

Strangest part? He didn't even think twice. That don't make him no hero. Just makes him like any other guy who ever wandered the halls of any hotel anywhere. Or the paths through an island jungle. And he ain't usually just like most other guys.

Freckles? Her name as a question's just about to fall off his lips, but he bites it back.

Not yet.

She glances over at him, grinning wider than before when he dimples up.

"Tireless workers, right? And it's not like they ever need raises or promotions." Or paychecks at all. Or sick leave or disability. "Discovered those housekeeping robots really keep to a schedule, too. If you don't have your Do Not Disturb sign on the door, they let themselves in pretty much like clockwork."

She was pretty surprised the time she stepped out of the shower, heard something rustling around the bedroom, and tensely cracked the door open to look out just in time to see a robot glide by with a trash bag.

"Bet by this time tomorrow even those bullet holes are gone."

"That's a bet I ain't gonna go against, Freckles." This is a little more like it. Regular old conversation, whatever that is. Not this weird do I or don't I crap he can't seem to shake today. Best just not to think about it and be himself. If he believed in faith -- he don't -- he might even go back to his whole bit about how one day that'll be enough.

Lucky for him he ain't no believer. His hand falls away from the bullet hole on the wall and goes almost automatically to the bullet hole in his leg. That's no ploy for sympathy. More a reminder to himself. It's funny how often it's some damn trauma or other that's brought him and Freckles together. A little torture, a vengeful boar, a couple Others, a fake pacemaker. Some Dragons. Hell yeah, they've had some fun, ain't they? He nods toward the convenience store. "Mind stoppin' in here with me?"

Just a couple supplies. Just in case. Comes a time when a man has to take a little responsibility for the things he does. This seems like one of 'em, like it or not.

Still grinning, she raises her eyebrows slightly and gestures him in. "I don't mind at all."

She'd thought he just wanted to go on a little walk with her, stretch his legs, maybe address yesterday afternoon. Turns out he's actually running errands while he's at it.

No reason not to. Maybe he wants her opinion on more reading glasses or something. That idea makes her smile to herself.

As they walk in, she pulls the hair band from around her wrist and starts gathering her hair back, her eyes drifting to the wall of magazines near the registers. "You need new reading material?"

"Hell no, Freckles. I got me the best of the new magazines already. Someone I know brought 'em right to my room yesterday." No. He heads right for the optimistically-named Family Planning aisle. One kid's enough, thanks. Maybe one of these days he'll tell Freckles all about it, but that'll be a cold damn day in hell.

When he turns to her, it's without much apology. "I figured... bein' an ex Boy Scout and all... well, Freckles, you know what they say. Be prepared."

Thing is, there's so much to choose from, and a package that claims to be a once-a-month male contraceptive catches his eye. Frowning, he reads the details, then puts on his reading glasses and reads 'em again, then gives her a little glance of consternation.

"And I thought women didn't trust men to take care of this kind of thing." But he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, holds the box out for her perusal: what the hell. "Want me to try it?"

It's a little bold, assuming he'll need it. But one thing he ain't never done yet is run out of hope. Especially not over somethin' like this.

She follows a step behind him, eyebrows rising, and then freezes a little like a deer in headlights when he starts looking over the pills and condoms and jellies and sponges. He picks up one box pretty fast, and as he reads the back of it -- putting his glasses on and everything -- she stands there, her tongue jutting sideways to the corner of her lips and her eyebrows showing no sign of lowering.

Never in a million years would she have dreamed up this scenario, investigating the birth control aisle with Sawyer.

Her instinct is to turn enough to look away until he turns toward her, but she's half taken aback and half mesmerized. Like he's suddenly decided to change his clothes right in front of her or something.

With the box held out to her, she hesitates. When he wants to, Sawyer can craft one hell of a plan. She's seen him in action, even been just another pawn in one of his cons before. This walk of his is turning out to be a lot more practical on his part than she ever suspected.

She doesn't take the box from him, but after a long moment she does finally step closer, close enough that she could read the box he's presenting to her if she chose to. A hint of her surprise lingers in her voice, but her tone stays level. "You really are planning ahead."

Birth control is a good idea in general; she has to respect that he is being practical about it. But she doesn't think that's all this is.

You run, I con.

This feels like his way of getting her to give him some kind of straight answer: is it going to happen again or not?

Well, there's a silence. It ain't like he was expectin' approval or disapproval or nothin' any more than he expected to find an over-the-counter male pill. No, he was gonna ask her opinion on rubbers, see if she had a preference for one kind or another, but this... hell, it's easy and it lasts a whole month, and if they ain't had sex again in that month he can forget about 'em for good. No big deal.

"Tell you what, Freckles." Decisively, he tucks those reading glasses away. "I'm gonna get these. Then if we need 'em, it's all taken care of. And if we don't, all it cost was the swallow of one little pill. No harm, no foul." Now his shrug is casual as can be. "And no pressure either."

That's somethin' he wants her to know. Sure, if it was up to him they'd be buck naked together right now, but it ain't just up to him. He could ask, he could cajole, he could plead. He could con her into it if he wanted; he's got enough experience doin' that.

None of those things are what he wants. What he wants -- besides a repeat performance -- is for the next time to be just as mutual as the first time. That disturbs him a little, that thought, not that he goes around takin' that kind of advantage of women just for the hell of it. Sex should always have some mutual benefit, even if it's just the sheer physical thrill of it.

With Kate, he feels a little different. Mutual benefit, sure, but damn if there ain't this tiny little seed of emotional component to it. Looks like Freckles really is the new sheriff in town, whether or not she knows it.

"Easy peasy. Anything else you want at this place, Freckles?" Today only, it's on him.

"Wait a second."

This time her mouth's the traitor, and forehead wrinkled, she catches herself reaching out, her hand stopping about two inches from his shoulder.

"All you brought me here for was to get an opinion?"

He didn't expect a more straightforward let's try this next time or I think yesterday was a mistake from her? Just her opinion? She can hardly believe that.

"What'd you think, Freckles? That I was gonna waste your time or somethin'?" Grinning, he shakes his head ruefully and picks up a couple of boxes. One says TROJANS -- nice to see some things don't change -- and the other says VENUSIAN DELIGHT. "What I was gonna do, woman, was ask which of these you preferred." Now he sets those boxes back on the shelf like they contain some sort of damn disease or somethin'. "But I kind of like the idea of the one pill a month better. Unless you got some deep-seated thoughts about it one way or t'other."

Maybe it's like he said at first. Maybe women don't trust the men to take care of this kind of thing. Man never knows what his girl -- a girl -- might be thinkin'.

"You got a preference, I'll take it into consideration." His mind's pretty much made up, though.

It's slow, but a smile spreads across her face.

I can't believe we're having this conversation is still plain as day in her eyes.

"In general terms," she offers carefully, "seems like those pills would make most people happy."

He's already made his decision, and she's kind of relieved for it, as if his taking her freely-given advice on what she'd like him to use in bed would make this more complicated than it already is.

Now that it's out of the way, though, she manages to relax about it some. "This one of your usual day-after activities?"

She's real cute when she's all dumbfounded. What, did she think he was gonna be all obvious about everything? Get all puppy-dog-eyed every time he saw her? That ain't him. Sure, he's got a practical side: imagine the impossibility of not bein' careful here. He's already pretty much the ultimate in a deadbeat dad.

(Set up a new account. It don't matter what bank, just make it in Albuquerque. Put it in the name of Clementine Philips.)

Hell, he did the best he could. It ain't like she was gonna ever care about him or nothin', little Clementine. Little Goo-goo Ga-ga. Last thing he needs is more kids runnin' around.

(Who's Clementine Phillips?)

He looks down at the box in his hand. We done here? And what the hell is Freckles thinkin'? That the whole thing was some kind of mistake? She's barely so much as looked at him since he knocked at her door, backpack in the corner of her room and somethin' that could've been a shuttle ticket on her nightstand.

(What kind of person do you think I am?)

That'd be a good question to ask her. What does she think?

(Good thing you don't hate me, Freckles.)

Good thing he don't hate her. Love and hate, he figures, they're flip sides of the same coin. He's seen how one could go to the other real fast. How a person could be underestimated. How a person could mistake a guy for someone who gives a damn. He ain't been the kind of guy to give a damn once in his whole life, unless it affected him personally.

(Yes! I love him!! I love him! Please.)

Box in hand, he slips his arm around her shoulder and saunters her over to the counter with him so he can pay for the stuff. Now ain't the time to ask her no damn questions; he just wants things to be whatever the hell they're gonna be.

(Love you too, Freckles.)

He has since real early on, but it ain't like there was any admitting it that was gonna happen. Tiger don't change its stripes.

She's not sure if this counts as a successful outing: they've -- he's -- picked out a form of birth control, but they can barely not be awkward--

Before he can usher her out of the aisle, a different box catches her eye. She turns almost before she realizes she's doing it, hand automatically reaching out for the familiar purple-and-blue box.

White lettering proclaims WIDMORE LABS HOME PREGNANCY TEST, and even though the box is thinner and sleeker and the lettering pointier and the advertised wait time one minute instead of two like it used to be, she remembers picking up a box almost exactly like this one before.

And it's the same kind Sun used on the island. Maybe Sawyer even remembers it; Sun got it from his stash, she said.

Maybe not. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd have an eye for detail for, but he's surprised her in the past.

An abrupt breath comes out of her, half surprise and half wry amusement, and she lets the box go again, turning back toward the front of the store.

"That's not one of the iconic items I expected to see seventy years later."

"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?"