Title: "Like Music"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Lost"
Rating/Classification: SAC, gen, Sayid/Sawyer-ish, filler ficlet.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: Set during "Special" (Michael's ep). Sawyer's not jealous. Really.
Shannon's laughter lulls him, calms him, like music soothes the savage beast. He likes her smile; he likes the way it teases his own out of hiding. They have a secret, a shared secret, in the map and the frantic scribblings of a madwoman that Shannon has turned into a lullaby.
And that is all.
Sayid can tell that Sawyer does not believe him.
"Faroukh, I don't care if you're swinging from the treetops, makin' hot jungle love," he snarls, waving Sayid off as if he is nothing more significant than a mosquito.
"You don't?" When he catches that dismissive hand, it is quickly jerked away. "Why did you take Claire's diary?" he wonders, shifting tactics. When the direct approach fails, interrogation must take a more circuitous route.
"Ran out of bathroom reading." Sawyer scowls, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "Did you come running 'cause Prince Chuckie and Freckles told you I skimmed the good parts? You gonna spank me now?"
"*Did* you read it?" Sayid can see him fighting with the lie, with the truth, and with his usual lead-in to a lie: "would you believe me if I told you?" and he waits to see which impulse will win.
He does not have to wait long.
"'Mr. Sayid thanked me when I gave him his envelope. He has a nice smile, but I think he's sad. He should smile more often.' " It is almost haunting, how Sawyer says the words...because his unmistakable Southern drawl seems to echo and reverberate with something gentler, female, Australian...and more than the barest hint of loathing. "'Mr. Sayid left today. I hope he comes back soon. I think he keeps everybody in line. Him and Locke. Except Locke is a little scary. Sayid isn't scary at all.' Shows what she knows, huh? You're pretty goddamned scary when you're shovin' bamboo up a man's nails."
Sayid rocks back on his heels, one palm flat in the sand, feeling the thousands of tiny granules against his skin. "You memorized what she said about me?"
"You're my favorite subject, dont'cha know? 'Sides myself." Sawyer looks up at him, and the sarcastic quip is at odds with the expression on his face. Stark. Angry. No...something else. Perhaps...lonely? And he quotes, harshly, "'Sawyer's mean. It's no wonder he's always alone. Nobody wants to be around him. Maybe he's just pretending, but who wants to find out?' "
"Are you just pretending?" He arches an eyebrow, filtering sand through his fingers, his own little hourglass ticking the seconds off.
A straight answer is far too simple. "You never write, you don't call. You only come to see me when you think I need a whoopin'." Sawyer shakes his head, slowly. "Go back to your beach blanket bimbo, Mr. Sayid. I'll send up a flare the next time I need my ass kicked."
"Shannon is not my 'bimbo', Sawyer."
"So you said. I could care less, Jamal."
"I think you care a great deal. About many things."
The hole in Sawyer's jeans has widened. His entire kneecap is now exposed, bare.
Can he sew, patch it over, or will he simply steal another pair altogether?
They have a secret, a shared secret, too.
Sayid laughs, wearily.
And soothes the savage beast.
--end--
January 20, 2005.