2008-11-17 20:58 The complexity in every reunion Public mood restless fandom: lost, genre: comedy, genre: drama, genre: gen, genre: mystery, james (sawyer) ford, juliet burke

The complexity in every reunion
Word count: 738
Characters: Juliet Burke, James “Sawyer” Ford, mentions of others (and Others!)
Timeline: Post-S4. Inspired (in an unconscious level) by this S5 promotional photo.
Rating: PG for language, to be safe
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the TV show LOST and its components is owned by "American Broadcast Companies, Inc.", which reserves all rights therein.
Author’s Notes: I haven’t written even a “Get Well” card in a while, which makes me feel my writing is still rusty (even if friends have stated otherwise). This might be a standalone or might be continued, depending on my muse’s mood. BTW, my guess is that Juliet’s eating acerolas, which aren’t really berries; but I’m leaving that open to speculation and suggestions.


“Juliet Burke,” declared Sawyer, pushing branches out of the way, “you’re a cruel, heartless bitch.”

Walking ahead in the jungle, Juliet didn’t stop on her tracks; she just turned her head and answered, chewing a berry, “took you this long to realize that?”

“You know what it’s gonna be like when Amelia finds out, don’t you?”

This time she didn’t even turn. “It would happen sooner or later,” she said, jerking her shoulders and spitting a fruit seed.

Sawyer sighed. “Yeah, but you really needed to kill goddamn Peter?”

“James, we don’t raise bunnies because they’re cute,” Juliet answered with a decisive tone, adding humorously “I didn’t know you were such a nature defender, by the way.”

“Haha,” he said, not finding it funny at all. “I don’t care about the damn bunny, I care about my ears. She loved that thing and now she’ll come to me for complaints. Because of course, you wouldn’t be capable of murdering her precious little Peter Rabbit, so she’ll just assume it must’ve been me.” He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, shaking his head, then ran his eyes over her body wistfully. “When I say you’re cruel, I’m thinking about my well-being, not some random fluffy meatball’s. You really could be a little nicer to me, baby.”

The woman wasn’t paying much attention to his words; she had found another shrub of the bittersweet, red berries she adored. The little rounded fruits weren’t found easily on the island, so whenever she saw a shrub of it – and one heavy with ripe berries like that –, she cheered. Sawyer’s last words, however, demanded an answer, which was resumed to eye-rolling, a smirk and a “keep your hands to yourself, baby”.

“Ouch,” he whistled. “Seems we’re on that time of the month again, eh.” Then, in a disgusted tone, he added, “and will you stop eating that stuff? It could be poisonous, you know.”

“I’ve had these for six years now and so far I’m still ali—”

Her words fell short on her mouth when Sawyer silenced her with his hand; once he made sure he had her full attention, he gestured for her to keep quiet. The jokes would have to wait: something was out of place. She looked around, trying to find what had raised his suspicions.

“Listen,” he breathed almost soundlessly. Not too far from where they were, she could hear the noise of a nearby stream, but there was something else beside it – the faint, occasional splash of an object, or body, breaking the water surface.

“Could be just fish,” she suggested optimistically.

“Could be,” he conceded, but squatted behind a bush and readied the rifle anyway. She kneeled by his side, hurriedly reaching for the binoculars in her backpack.

“Shit”, he muttered between his teeth, pointing through the leaves. She soon found what he meant – there was someone by the stream, apparently a grown man. “Who’s it? One of ours getting lost like an idiot?”

“Hang on,” she complained, fiddling with the binoculars. One of the lenses was broken, which made recognition even more complicated. “He’s filling some bottles. I can’t see much. Looks familiar.”

And after that she didn’t say another word, nor did she move.

“So what?”

Slowly, Juliet lowered the binocular, took a breath, and shut her eyes firmly. She dared another look before closing her lids again and handing the equipment to Sawyer, breathing unevenly.

“Hey,” he said, ignoring the binocular and reaching for her neck to check her temperature. “Hey, are you ok? You look pale.”

She still hadn’t found the courage to open her eyes. “I’m not—maybe—maybe you were right about those berries.”

His hand went for her wrist, searching for her pulse; his voice was filled with genuine concern. “Hey, hey, hey, girl, don’t you dare dying on me. You may be a heartless bitch but you’re the only one I got here, so don’t—”

But she slapped his hand away and forced the binocular against his chest, eyes still shut. “Just tell me what you see.”

Worried, he obeyed, searching for the figure by the riverbed. And there he was, surely and clearly, so much so that not even the broken lens would come in the way. It was, undoubtedly, Jack Shephard – even though he had died in a freighter explosion three years before.

“Son of a bitch,” Sawyer mumbled, falling flat on his buttocks.