Title: "Dead Man's Float"
Author: monimaala
Fandom: "Lost"
Rating/Classification: AC for language, Sawyer/Sayid, humor, pre-slash.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: Sort of a loose duringquel for my Sun ficlet, "You Will Rise." Sawyer's just trying to get clean.
He picks a time when everybody's congregating on the beach and paying tribute to the almighty Doc' to sneak into the inner camp. Aside from that whole potential cave-in factor, it's actually kind of nice. Quiet. The waterfall looks like something out of a girly shampoo commercial and he half expects to see a supermodel come out of the sheets of water, all wet and sexy. *Hi, Sawyer. I'm Misty. Wanna dry me off?* When she doesn't, he just sighs and strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile by his book. He turned down the corner of the last page he read. He has no idea why he's reading a book about *rabbits*...but he actually likes it and he sleeps with it at night because he's afraid one of the others will take it away from him. Or at least fuck with his head and turn down other corners so he'd lose his place.
He wouldn't blame them, because he *is* an asshole...but he's not leaving anything to chance.
Not even this stolen opportunity to get clean.
He dives in, slicing through the fresh water pool like the ponds he used to skip stones on back home. He even touches the muddy bottom with one hand, and finds a rock worn smooth by the current. He skips it across, watching it bounce off the falls. Good thing Misty isn't really there. He would've whacked her in the head.
When he breaks the surface of the water for the ninth or tenth time, he shakes the excess wet weight off like he's the kid's golden lab and pushes his fingers through his thank-fucking-finally clean hair. And he realizes he's not alone anymore.
You'd think, on an island this size, that a guy would have plenty of personal space, but, no, their merry bunch of castaways sticks together like minute rice. He can't even jerk off with somebody else holding onto his dick.
"What d'you want, Mohammed?" he asks, closing his eyes and leaning against the bank.
"You are polluting our fresh water supply." He always sounds so fucking smart. Professor, Sawyer thinks, crankily. Any day now, he's going to build a radio out of coconuts. No. Correction. He probably all ready has.
"With my mere presence? Surely not." He lays on the drawl, watching the other man get all still and annoyed. "The waterfall cycles it through, keeps it fresh, Akbar...and I ain't exactly pissing in the Ganges."
Sayid blinks, opening and closing his mouth without saying anything. Either he's surprised by the "Akbar" so soon after the "Mohammed" or he's shocked that Sawyer's heard of the Ganges River.
Of course he has.
He ain't stupid.
It's in China.
"Get. Out. Of. The. Pool. Sawyer." Sayid speaks over his laughter. Enunciating it, even. Pompous prick.
"I'm as naked as the day I was born to my sweet mama, Jafar," he points out, taking the opportunity to scratch his balls. Ahh. Nothing quite like a good scratch. Well, except a good beer. And a good fuck. And a slightly waterlogged copy of Watership Down.
Sayid flinches, looking away quickly. Pretending he didn't see Sawyer's hand go south. "Keep going," he hisses, through clenched teeth, "Eventually you may get to my real name. But, first, get out of the water."
"Rumpelfuckingstiltskin," he mutters, leaning his head back again. "Don't you have Arts and Crafts hour? Ain't Mary Ann and Ginger waiting for a grass skirt? Or did the Good Doctor put you on Sawyer Patrol? He tell you to come make sure I was staying out of trouble?"
"The 'Good Doctor' does not dictate my actions." Oooh. Ruffled feathers. Somebody's huffy.
"And you don't dictate *mine*, Sugarplum."
"Sugarplum?" Is that...a chuckle?
He opens his eyes again. Even tilted and upside down, it's obvious that huffiness has been replaced by amusement. "What? Am I close?" he wonders.
"Not remotely." Sayid's shoulders shake. His hair, a messy mop that could do with a wash, falls forward to obscure his face. An improvement, really. "Sugarplum!" he repeats, almost choking on the laughs.
The water is crisp, warmed by the midday sun. Sawyer could float all day. And he's really not naked. He's got shorts on. Not that they're much protection if something critter-y wants to chomp on his nuts. But the look on Sayid's face was well worth the not-so-little white lie. "Come on, Man. Take a load off. Ain't you sick of washing in salt and sand?"
"You're suggesting that *I* sully the water supply, too?"
Sully? Who SAYS things like that? "Why, yes, I think I am." Sawyer turns, volleying an entire armful of the lake at Sayid. Now, his view of the other man is unobstructed, right side up, and, yup, he sure could use a bath. Maybe a weekend at a fancy day spa. Seaweed wrap. The works. Not that Sawyer even knows what the fuck the "works" entails. Maybe they'd wax his chest? And it would *hurt*. A lot.
Sawyer savors the thought of Pain + Sheik Ali as a dirty sleeveless t-shirt hits him in the face.
And, two seconds later, there's a splash off to his left.
"Well, thatta boy, Sayid. You rebel, you." He watches him surface, clapping politely.
And Sayid just stares at him, the precious water dripping off his nose, down his chest, clinging to the non-waxed hairs there.
"What?" Sawyer stares back. "What now?"
"You called me 'Sayid'." A slight smile.
"Well, don't get all emotional on me. I'll try not to do it again," he assures, snorting.
"Not Omar, not Mohammed, not Akbar..."
"Jafar," he adds, helpfully. "Sheik Ali."
"Sayid." Suddenly, they're real close together. A little too close. And he doesn't know how a guy from a desert country could possibly swim so well. "It's Sayid and you are perfectly capable of saying it." Also...it's real plain to him that Sayid, un-like him, really isn't wearing anything. A man who can make an A bomb out of coconuts and duct tape apparently doesn't fear anything biting his goods.
"I'm capable of a lot of things. Don't mean I'm gonna do any of 'em." He shrugs, lazily.
"And that is a shame...because the people here could use your help." Dark eyes size him up. But not with contempt. Just...a kind of sadness. "You could be more than what you are." Oh, great, he's skinny-dipping in an episode of "Touched By an Arab."
"And you could quit being an overcompensating prick," he points out. "You ain't got nothing to prove, Say--Jamal." He catches himself just in the nick of time. "People here don't give a shit what war you fought in and on what side." He should know. He comes from a place where people won't fucking stop talking about the War Between the States and polishing their great-great-great grandpappy's grey uniforms.
"Then, what *do* we give a shit about?" Sayid counters.
"That's easy." He splashes a mini-tidal wave at him. "Survival."
Before he knows it, Sayid's splashing him back. And, then, it's all-out battle. His hands slide over the other man's biceps...the man probably bench presses a zillion pounds...Sayid moves to jerk him under the water...but he's the one who comes up sputtering and spitting and blinking.
"What's the matter...Sugarplum?" he mocks, softly. "A little too wet?"
"So it would seem. " Sayid cocks his head. The last of the waterlogged coughs fade. And he smiles. "Are you going to dry me off?"
Oh. Hell.
Not exactly Misty the supermodel.
But he'll do.
After all, Sawyer's not leaving anything to chance.
Not even this stolen opportunity to kiss a guy he doesn't like...but might just want.
--end--
November 5, 2004.