This is for challenge #63: uc pairings at lostfichallenge.

Title: Somewhere I have never travelled
Rating: PG-13
Characters, pairings: Sawyer/Juliet
Summary: This is not wrong. They're not doing this for all the wrong reasons. There are no wrong reasons.
Disclaimer: Lost and its characters are not mine.





Somewhere I have never travelled

_____
Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
Any experience, your eyes have their silence
e. e. cummings, 1931
______


The day they leave, as she stands on the beach and waits for the helicopter to take off, Juliet notices that Sawyer is nowhere to be found. It’s not that she’s looking for him —she knows that just the sight of him will remind her, all over again, of all the reasons why this is wrong, why they can’t let it happen, why they can’t let them go—, but she can’t bear to watch as the helicopter flies off, so instead, she turns around to take a good look around the beach camp and she notices, he’s not there.

She doesn’t care.

She wishes though, she had also felt like a private goodbye, instead of the awkward “let’s pretend we’re going to see each other again in a week” she’s shared with Jack on the crowded beach. But that’s the good thing about pretending, there is no need for real goodbyes (or real nothing, actually). Well, it works better for her that way.

They’re gone now.

Jack and Kate.

Together.

They keep silent and watch them go. She watches them go.

It was never their business anyway.

__

Sawyer doesn’t get back to the beach camp until two days later —again, she’s not looking for him, maybe he’s being coming and going and she just hasn’t noticed, who knows?—. When she spots him dawdling towards his tent, shoulders down and a blank expression on his face, she doesn’t make a move to go and talk to him. She has nothing to say to him after all. She doesn’t care that he’s back.

(She’s not lying to herself, at least not about that, not about him).

She is not interested in him, in what he’s going through.

Contrary to what it may seem, to what the rest of the camp (his people, not her people) may think, he’s not alone. He’s not as isolated or excluded as he’d like to believe he is.

She is.

Alone.

__

When they accidentally meet, running into each other in the kitchen or crossing ways on the beach, they normally don’t talk to each other, they don’t have anything to say; if it’s possible, they don’t look at each other (at least not when the other one is looking) and, of course, they never, never, touch each other. If the others notice something is off, they just assume each of them is avoiding the other (not that they were close before, mind you) because they can’t bear the tyranny of memories, the thought of what’s been lost.

Juliet wants to laugh at that.

She’s not afraid of remembering. She’s afraid of expecting, of hoping; and she guesses, he feels the same way.

She knows this place much better than they do, much better than she knows her new self at times; she’s seen and lived here enough (more than enough, more than too much) to know that hope is pointless. Every promise is a lie in here. “We’ll take two. We’ll take them to the mainland so they can inform the authorities. These are the coordinates. You’ll all be all at home in a few days”. She slips a bitter half smile, remembering. There are no coordinates. This is everything there is. That’s probably the only thing she can be sure of. They’re not coming back.

Deep down she feels she should tell Sawyer, talk to him about it; but who is she to pull apart his own pretense? She doesn’t have the right. It wouldn’t change anything besides.

They are gone and they are not coming back, ever.

The way Sawyer holds himself, the way he only answers with a nod or a grunt, even when Claire is the one who approaches him, full of tender coy smiles and a giggling baby in her arms, the way he won’t look at any of them in the eye… all of it tells Juliet that he knows too, just like she does.

They are here forever.

Everyone else is still waiting for rescue to come any minute; their excitement merges with her second-hand tragedy and paradoxically soothes it, to some extent. For the time being. In a few weeks, as days go by and they don’t come back, sunset after sunset, when they all will realize there will be no helicopters, no boats, no nothing, then her tragedy (and his tragedy) will become their tragedy, the tragedy of all of them.

There’s no way out, because there is no out.

What does it matter if she never sees Jack again? What does it matter if he never sees Kate again? That doesn’t change anything. She doesn’t love Jack, she never did. She loved the romantic fantasy, his promise of escaping together.

What had Sawyer loved?

She doesn’t care.
__

The first time —nothing happens, but she feels a click inside of her and, afterwards, she knows something is different between them now—it happens when she’s less ready, less expecting it. It’s dark already (and it’s been for a couple of hours) when he approaches her; she’s sitting on the beach, hiding maybe between the shadows the fires draw between her and the tents, her toes curled into the cool sand. She’s gazing out to the darkened horizon, a few jutted stars amidst the blackness.

It’s been two weeks.

Some still believe, Claire and Hurley and of course Sun and her husband—they have to—. But Sayid’s expression has changed and so has John’s, but not quite in the same way. It seems like a heavy weight has been lifted from John’s shoulders, but in exchange, it has landed on the rest of them. And it’s only getting worse by the minute.

Maybe that’s why Sawyer is there with her now, sitting, also hiding; maybe that’s why he hands her an unopened bottle of what appears to be cheap scotch. It’s dark, though, so she can’t be sure. She’s heard of his stash of course, but she hadn’t heard it was bottomless. Well, all the better.

He doesn’t say anything, he only offers a broken lopsided grin —it’s kind of awkward, for both of them— but she finds it endearing all the same, God knows why.

She takes the bottle and takes a good look at it; then, she hands it back to him. “Open it.”

He does as she says effortless, chuckling softly, and offers the first sip. He keeps smiling, kind of, but it seems it hurts him to do so. She doesn’t know him much, but from what she’s heard and read about him, this seems like a huge gallant gesture on his part, so she smiles back and drinks. She doesn’t attempt to feign moderation, which in part wipes away the awkwardness from his smile; it grows wider, more honest. “Glad to see I can help drown your sorrows.”

She smiles again and the smile tastes bitter, way sourer than the liquor that pours down her throat when she drinks again. She doesn’t care, because maybe the alcohol (and Sawyer’s proximity) is not drowning her sorrows, but it’s drowning her thoughts, and that is all she needs. When she almost coughs up the liquor he smiles and he looks at her with something very similar to tenderness. She almost blushes.

She passes the bottle on to him and he takes it, but doesn’t drink. She gives him an inquisitive look and he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, gulping down from the bottle.

Its content is declining way faster that it should.

They don’t care.

When he’s done, after he downs almost half the bottle without a hint of a flinch, he gives the bottle back to her and she takes it, feeling his rough fingers brush lightly the back of her hand. Her whole body tingles but she ignores the bolt of electricity she feels because she was expecting it, sooner or later. So it doesn’t count. And besides, he’s done it on purpose. From what she’s heard, and seen, and read about him, it sounds like something he would do. After all, it’s what he does, isn’t it? He’s made a living out of making women feel like she doesn’t want to feel right now, despite his smile and the promise of a white thought.

She won’t give him the satisfaction.

But he looks her in the eye and, even though it’s dark, she wavers. This is his realm. “This ain’t no place for Romeos, Juliet.”

(He never uses real names, unless they have some meaning attached.)

She doesn’t know what to make of it really; she doesn’t quite get what he’s offering besides comfort and sympathy and a quick roll in the hay, maybe. His eyes only darken further but she doesn’t care.

She just drinks again, one last time; the liquor doesn’t taste as sour anymore. Then, she passes on the bottle, back again, and this time she’s the one who lets her fingers brush his hand, and she does it on purpose too.

He smirks.

She stands up and walks away.

He doesn’t follow her.

She is not disappointed.

__

The second time, she thinks it’s days later but it could have been weeks —time too isn’t worth a damn here—, it happens also when it’s dark, very dark. They’re also hiding, even when there are no burning fires on the beach. They both have a tent that would harbor them but, somehow, the moonlight bleaching their fire, as he pins her against a tree and lifts her legs around his waist, feels strangely purifying.

This is not wrong. They’re not doing this for all the wrong reasons. There are no wrong reasons. Of course, there are no right reasons either. This is not their spite, their hearts are not broken, they’re not trying to heal their damaged bleeding souls. It’s not their desperation in action; it’s not an itch they need to scratch.

This is the only thing they have and the only tragedy it’s the acknowledgement.

Sloppy kisses and bruising caresses quickly grow frantic as carelessly they shed clothes. It’s rushed and violent, but it feels natural somehow, unavoidable. She feels him inside her and she thinks she may experience a connection, a spiritual epiphany, something, anything, but a second later that feeling is lost forever.

She stills feels him though, deep inside, intruding her soul and staring at things she doesn’t want him to see. She tries to block him out but she gives in almost immediately; there is no use in fighting battles you cannot win. She lets out a sigh, he swallows down a groan, and afterwards it’s over. He just steps back and smirks, as she slides her legs off and looks down. She steps into her pants again and shakes her head, zipping them up. He turns around and walks away.

There is nothing to regret.

But it won’t happen again.

__

The third time, like the first one, he walks to her and sits down, sinking his body into the sand next to hers. This time is different though, the dazzling sun caresses the breaking waves and the sight blinds her and she is glad that she can’t see because staring at the ocean always makes her think of what is beyond, but then she realizes, there is no beyond. There is only heartache.

He breaks the magic of her moment and, inevitably, she feels awkward. She pulls at her sleeves with both hands, but then she notices he’s smiling, kind of, and she lets go. He’s also carrying a bowl of powdered eggs that he hands her with a nod of his head.

“Don’t you ever eat?”

It’s been four days (this time she’s counting) since they had sex. Nothing has remarkably changed between them and she’s okay with that, that’s a constant she can count on. They still don’t know each other, not really, and they still don’t give a damn. And that’s how it should be, because it can’t be any other way.

“No alcohol this time?”

He chuckles and offers her a spoon. “I just woke up, Goldilocks. Let’s save the good stuff for a later time.”

His bawdy comment makes her smile in spite of herself. This is the only way he’s going to acknowledge what’s happened, what they’ve done, and she’s happy with the lack of expectations and the carefree attitude.

He gets it.

They’re in tune.

He has brought her breakfast.

__

The fourth time she goes into his tent, right after sunset. She doesn’t pretend to have a reason and he doesn’t pretend to be interested in whether she has it or not. He just smirks, as he always does, and takes her hand, pulling her body against him and kissing her long and deep, like he’s never kissed her before —well, like he didn’t kiss her the other night, almost a week ago—. If she notices something is different, she doesn’t stop to think about it.

This time, they don’t lie entangled afterwards either, but they share a beer and she has the feeling that is as good as it gets with him. She likes it; she likes him. She likes that his voice feels tangible, she likes she is now branded forever with certain memories. His husky whisper, “Slow down, sunbeam, there ain’t no rush”; his flirty wink before she leaves the tent, “Sleep tight, Goldilocks.”

She likes it when he calls her Goldilocks; it makes her think of nothing at all. And hey, it’s a nickname she can throw back at him any day.

(She won’t lie to herself again).

It will happen again.

__

It happens again.

And again, and again, and again.

They fall.

She loses count of how many times and she doesn’t know if it’s been weeks or months until one day, in the middle of the afternoon (they don’t hide anymore, it would be pointless since everybody knows and, of course, they don’t judge them, they think they understand but they don’t realize, there is nothing to understand), she finds herself dozing off inside his tent, again, her spent body curled up against his rocking chest.

It is different, she’s not stupid, but she won’t think too much about it. Whatever is now between them wasn’t there before but it’s not exactly new either, at least not for her. She’s been here before, in a relationship of sorts (the word will ever make her cringe) with a man she knows she can’t love.

But again, licking ice cream off spoons inside a warm bed, between four walls that had only made her feel even more locked up, was never better than powdered eggs now and quiet breakfasts on this beach.

It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond here and now.

As he runs his fingers through her hair —Goldilocks—, breathing calmly, she tells herself they don’t share any feelings, nothing beyond loneliness and resignation and the awareness that this is it, this is the end of their days. There is nothing else; nothing awaits them except for this immediate momentary comfort, this bond to reality, this human connection that only they both can provide for one another, when it all turns dark and suffocating.

There is no Kate for him (there never really was) and there is not Jack for her. There is not Rachel, or Julian either, but that is a loss that truly pains her still, so she’d rather rest pressed up against his slick warm body and not think about them.

She guesses he feels the same.

They live trapped inside this airtight see-through capsule and underneath the vault that sucks their breathing air, displacing them from space and time, this is everything they have.

This is their forever.

This is their happy ending.



_____
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
e. e. cummings, 1958.