Title: "Some Kind of Wonderful"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Lost"
Rating/Classification: SAC, slash, het, Saywer/Other, Sawyer/Sayid, mild language and sexual situations.
Disclaimer: BAD ROBOT!
Summary: A scene set sometime before the Sawyer episode actually airs. It's considerably less overt and smutty than the dream that inspired the story.
He does not wait long before he approaches. Only until the girl emerges from the shelter. And he flinches as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
There have been rumors circulating around the camp for days. Since before the split. But he ignored them, too occupied with other things. Until Claire comes to him, the concern of a would-be mother on her face, her belly settling low and huge like the moon. Somehow, it has fallen to him, this responsibility. To lead those who stay, hopeful, on the beach. So, he listens, carefully, following the path of her pointed finger to the teenager tending the signal fire.
"Radha," she tells him, her husky accent erasing the softness of the Hindustani "dh." Only sixteen. She wears her long, black, hair in a single heavy braid. Her face is solemn, her brows thick and unplucked. She is too serious to be pretty. Too starved to be lush. And he understands. Her father was one of the bodies they burned. It is only after Claire singles her out that he remembers hearing her recite a Sanskrit prayer as the last of the ashes cooled.
She rarely speaks, only stares at them all with her large dark eyes. She is forgettable. A face among so many. A name he never bothered to learn.
But, later that night, he hears her cry out one he *has* learned. Too well. "Sawyer."
He sees their bodies reflected by the firelight.
She is not shy. Not the least bit forgettable.
So, he waits. Just long enough.
"What are you doing?" he demands, shouldering his way into the crude lean-to.
Sawyer sprawls, unselfconsciously, on a beach towel. His frayed blue jeans are still undone and his everpresent rabbit adventure is creased and open on his bare chest. "Baskin' in the afterglow," he drawls, pillowing his head on one arm. "Do you mind?"
Sayid's hands curl, automatically, into fists. "She is sixteen, Sawyer. Tell me that even you cannot be so disgusting."
"Can't I?" The other man sits up, his novel falling aside with a thump. His eyes glitter with a sudden, unnamed, emotion, so powerful that it makes him stumble back a step. "You have no idea how disgusting I can be, Hakim. And sixteen is plenty growed up. Last I checked, there ain't an age of consent here on Fantasy Island."
"*Sawyer*."
A harsh laugh. Sawyer adjusts himself, the gesture deliberate and lewd, and Sayid can't seem to close his eyes or turn away as Sawyer's body responds to just the slightest encouragement.
"It ain't gonna suck itself, you know."
The shadowplay was obscene enough. The thought of Sawyer contorting, knees drawing up, and head bowing, as he gives himself release, makes Sayid's stomach lurch. Sick, he tells himself. This man is sick.
"Radha's happy to oblige, Man." Sawyer's fingers move in slow strokes, each pull daring him to run. "She loves it. It makes her feel safe. It makes her *feel*--" Again that flash of darkness, sadness, loathing, but, then, it's gone, replaced with mockery. "Did you hear her tonight? Were you listening? Did you hear how she sounds when I'm inside her sweet little--"
Sayid cuts him off with an inarticulate growl, unable to listen to any more, unable to do anything except pounce. Sawyer's hands come up to block the blows, his legs just barely deflecting the knee that would grind into his groin.
"You bastard," he hisses, slamming Sawyer's head into the dirt. "You sick bastard."
His rage makes him clumsy. They roll and Sayid finds himself flat on the ground, trapped beneath hips and chest and sex.
An arm goes across his throat, holding his head down, mere inches, seconds, away from crushing his windpipe.
Five years in the Republican Guard have not made him a perfect soldier. Or a perfect man.
"Radha came to *me*," Sawyer whispers, so close that his stubble brushes Sayid's lips. "She wanted me. She begged me for it. And I ain't no saint. She wants to screw away her pain, I ain't gonna complain. But you...you woulda turned her down, right? You're too *noble*." He snarls it like an expletive. "You're noble and honorable and she *knew* that, so she came to me. Because Sawyer's easy, right? And the conso-fucking-lation prize."
"Wh-what?" Sayid surges upward and the motion, born of shock, is a stupid one because it brings Sawyer closer to him. A violation. Too intimate. He struggles. To no avail.
"She said you're beautiful." The sardonic twist of mouth. So much hatred. Palm against cheek, forcing their gazes to stay locked. "You're strong and brave and beautiful...but you scare her, too."
Beautiful? That is a laughable thought. All he has known in life has been ugliness. But fear... fear he understands.
Sawyer's thumb traces his bottom lip before joining its brethren gripping his chin. "Do I scare *you*?" Sayid wonders, hoarsely, all ready knowing the answer.
"Not one whit." Sawyer laughs. "She's right, Omar." Hair sweeps forward against his skin. "You're some kinda wonderful. Ridin' to her rescue like a real damn hero."
Sayid is not a perfect soldier.
Nor a perfect man.
And most certainly no hero.
"Do not complain this time either," he whispers.
When they kiss, it should be violent. It should be angry. Teeth and tongues clashing as elbows connect with ribs. But it isn't. It's tentative. Seeking. Sawyer's mouth is soft. Devoid of the vulgarity of his voice, his lips are tender, gentle, and they nip at Sayid's with curiosity. With need.
"You aimin' to take her place?" he asks, roughly, belying the vulnerable heat of his kisses. "Ain't that a bit much? Even for a big, strong, man like you?"
"As you said, Sawyer..." He slides his hand between them. Too intimate. Not nearly intimate enough. "It isn't going to suck itself."
--end--
November 11, 2004.