Can't Love, Can't Hurt - Sawyer/Claire
Aug. 23rd, 2010 03:36 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ficinabottleTitle: Can't Love, Can't Hurt
Characters: Claire/Sawyer, Aaron
Rating: M for violence, language, sex
Word Count: 2800
Summary: After coming home, Claire decides to marry Thomas but things don't go quite as she planned.
Disclaimer: So back in April 2008, Augustana released a CD titled, Can't Love Can't Hurt. I loved the CD so much that I decided to write a Claire/Sawyer centric story for each song on the CD. This is the eighth story inspired by the song Rest, Shame, Love, (one track remains). The song and characters used are simply borrowed and nothing more.
breaking up with your breakdowns,
standing tall in your white gown,
you're going nowhere, you're going fast.
Sawyer isn’t so sure this is the place for him. Kate is smiling with false happiness, dressed in a simple satin piece with her hair knotted at her neck. He sits in an uncomfortable chair feeling very aware of the sun’s heat. The music picks up, the groom walks out and stands in the appropriate space waiting for his bride, but no bride comes.
Claire is getting married to Thomas this morning and Sawyer is supposed to be acting like this is the best thing to happen since they all left the island. Kate stands off to one side waiting for Richard to walk the blonde down the aisle. She holds Aaron’s hand tightly in her own and he suddenly remembers something about an agreement between the two women regarding ‘their’ son. Everyone has had their perfect little happy ending.
‘Cept for him. ‘Cept for Claire.
Miles leans over and mutters something about Sawyer being the one to go on and check up on the bride and he reluctantly stands, feeling everyone’s eyes watch as he walks into the small building where Claire is readying.
He doesn’t knock. The door glides open noiselessly and he stands in the doorway, unable to do much but stare. Claire stands in her white gown, all pristine and looking something like a marble statue. Too pretty for real life, or for the life they’ve all lived, for that matter. To say she looks beautiful would be an understatement at best; too bad he’s too choked up to say much of anything at all.
There’s a frown etched onto her face as she fluffs her veil and preens in the mirror, almost as if she can’t quite erase the image of her own mud streaked face from her mind. Almost as if she’s trying to remember she has a mind at all. Her father is dead, brother gone too, mother fresh in the grave; left with a son who calls another woman ‘mommy’. He knows she thinks this is the only path left.
“You look beautiful,” he says. He means it.
She doesn’t turn and he realizes it’s because she knew he was there the second he approached the doorway. Three years in the jungle with the smoke monster will do that to a girl.
“I don’t feel beautiful,” she says and turns away from the mirror. Claire plops down in a nearby chair, dress fanning out beneath her. She turns her face upwards to him. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he can still see some crazy in those blue orbs. Once you reach the brink of insanity there’s always still some left. But not today, he doesn’t see crazy today. Today he sees fear, anxiety, and sadness. “I feel lost,” she says before dropping her face into her hands and crying.
He rushes to her side, kneels down to her level and takes her shaking hands into his own, forcing her to look at him. “Then don’t do this, sweetheart. Don’t marry him.”
“How can I not?” she sobs. “He’s Aaron’s father, he was the first love of my life!”
“Because Charlie – ”
“Don’t!” she interrupts. “Please don’t.” She says it as if she’s in physical pain.
“Because I can’t let you do this to yourself, to your life.” He brings his hand to her delicate cheek and wipes a stray tear away. “I know exactly how you feel.”
“But you don’t.” And she stands, breaking away from his grip. “You never went crazy, you were never left behind, you didn’t have to lie awake every night in the middle of a jungle with only an empty jar and a creepy squirrel baby to keep you company. He didn’t poison you.
“Thomas is the only one left who knows nothing of the island, of my time there. This is the only clean start I’ll ever get. This is for the good of everyone.” She turns back to him and looks at him, expects him to say something.
It takes minutes but he finally says, “you don’t love him and you never will,” before he retreats.
“I know,” she says softly to the empty room.
Claire marries Thomas ten minutes later underneath an awning of pink roses. Sawyer doesn’t stick around to watch.
- - -
you're slowing down but you'll never last,
take your time honey, take your time.
Kate’s been gone for eleven months when Thomas strikes Claire across the cheek with the wooden end of one of his paintbrushes for the first time. The loud crack echoes in the silent room and it is the first time Thomas is privy to the little bit of crazy left in Claire.
She takes the hit with stony eyes, covers the bruise with makeup, and picks Aaron up from pre-K.
When Sawyer asks where the bruise came from, she shakes his concerned hands from her skin and mutters some poor excuse about clumsiness and an open door. He’s never met anyone more graceful and lithe on their feet, but it’s easier to let things slide. He pushes Aaron on a swing while Claire watches Thomas paint through an open window; the frown on her red lips almost as ominous as a thundercloud.
- - -
it's the wrong dream, with the wrong man,
with a cold gun, in your wrong hand.
Thirty days after Thomas strikes Claire for the first time, he pushes her down a flight of wooden steps. Aaron watches the entire scene from the living room, blue eyes huge and round with fear. He is the one who dials Uncle Sawyer’s number and frantically whispers into the phone, fear bubbling past his tiny lips. “Claire fell! Mamma Claire fell! Thomas push—” before the line goes dead.
Sawyer nearly causes two collisions before making it to Claire’s home. He’s already called 911, but there’s no ambulance in sight. Instead, there is a splattering of blood on the wooden floor to greet him and Sawyer’s shoes slide on the crimson liquid as he enters. “Claire!” he yells. “Aaron!” There is only a chilling silence that answers him.
He stomps up the stairs still calling out their names but no one answers him. He searches their room, flinging open closets and scrambling underneath beds. He flies down the steps after a minute or two, heading towards Thomas’ studio. When he slams into the cold, tiled room, he isn’t prepared for the scene that greets him.
Claire stands in the center of the room, Aaron’s tiny form clinging to her jean-clad leg. He is covered in her blood and wails openly, his tears marking his rosy cheeks. Sawyer isn’t so sure how Claire is standing, not with the amount of blood streaming down past her temple and dripping onto the white tile. Her chest is heaving and she is gripping a large knife. Thomas stands about ten feet away from her next to some unfinished canvas, arms braced at his side. He doesn’t look scared and Sawyer thinks he’s quite the fool.
“Sweetheart,” Sawyer tries. Claire doesn’t turn her head (she knows how long he’s been in the house, of course). Thomas turns his head lazily, eyeing Sawyer with a smug confidence.
“Go on home, James,” Thomas says and Sawyer wonders how he can hate his accent so much but adore Claire’s. “This is just a misunderstanding.”
“You pushed her!” Aaron wails. “You pushed Momma Claire!”
“You little bastard – ” Thomas tries, but is cut off by a feral scream from Claire. “Don’t dare… don’t even look at him… I’ll kill you!”
“Claire,” Sawyer tries again. “Don’t do this, please darling. We need to get you help.”
“I don’t need help, Sawyer,” she says and raises the knife even higher. “I know what I need.”
“He’ll never come near any of you again, I promise. Claire. Look at me. I promise you. I won’t let anything bad happen to either of you.”
She breaks then. The knife clatters to the floor and she slides down with Aaron, clutching at her son and crying hard. Sawyer picks up the knife and throws it in the paint stained sink, collapsing down to the quivering pair and ignoring Thomas. Aaron isn’t bleeding at all and seems to be all right save for the fright in his eyes. He brushes Claire’s hair out of her face, feeling for the head wound, needing her to be okay. Already her eyes are unfocused. “Stay with me, Claire.”
“Sawyer,” she whispers weakly, the fight in her nearly gone. He sees her eyes widen and he turns just in time to see Thomas charging at the trio with the discarded knife. Before he can react, Claire is screeching and Aaron screams as she flings away from them both, intercepting the knife meant for Sawyer’s back. The cry of a siren muffles the sound of Thomas’ retreating footsteps, blocks out Sawyer’s frantic cry, the keening howl of Aaron as he retreats – the small of his back smacking into an open cabinet. The boy hides for hours on end after they take his mother away.
- - -
get it right this time, get it off your mind,
let the summer rain bring you rest
and shame and love
“You think Mommy will wanna color today, Uncle Sawyer?”
“I don’t know, kiddo. Maybe.”
Sawyer hates lying to the kid. Ever since coming home from the hospital, Claire hasn’t so much uttered a word. He took care of Aaron while Claire recovered, moved their things into his home, visited the pale blonde as much as possible. He never expected to be so damned domestic and didn’t even notice the change until Cassidy slyly made a dry remark one day while Clementine and Aaron frolicked. The most surprising thing is that it doesn’t seem to bother the bachelor one bit. Fact is, Claire and Aaron are the only ones left now that Kate’s flown the coop and Lapidus, Miles, and Richard are so far away. Maybe he feels like he owes it to Jack or maybe he owes it to himself… he’s not quite so sure.
Most of all, maybe he owes it to the blonde who sits out in their garden day after day. He’s the one who lost her in the first place, after all, the one who didn’t watch closely enough.
Today is the first day it rains and still, Claire doesn’t budge from her spot. He busies Aaron with tv and coloring before pulling on a hood and rushing outside.
“Come inside, Claire. It’s pourin’ buckets!” Her eyes shift toward him lazily and it’s almost as if she’s saying ‘so what’. She doesn’t seem to be too concerned about the weather. He extends his hand to her, urges her to take it. “Claire.”
She looks at him and bites her lip before taking his hand. The bruises on her collarbone have faded into a yellowish green now but still look so ugly on her pretty skin. “I wanted to save myself,” she says softly. “I didn’t want a hero.” Without warning, she unzips his jacket and strips him of it, throwing it somewhere on the cobblestone path. The rain soaks him immediately, dripping down his face and onto his eyelashes, from his nose to his lips. It’s a warm rain, but he is cold with the suddenness of it all.
Claire grips his hand tighter and moves it to the spot where Thomas drove the knife in. He can feel the raised scar it left on her skin even through the fabric of her shirt.
“I’m gonna be okay, they can’t get me anymore,” she says, this time with less of an edge in her voice. Standing on the tips of her toes she kisses him lightly on the mouth. “Thank you.”
She drops his hand and walks inside the house. Two hours later, Aaron and her draw a butterfly.
- - -
carve your name in a black stone,
swear to god we won't let go,
if you can't love babe, then you can't hurt,
we take the good times, with the worst
It’s late one winter night when Claire comes into his room, softly curling into a nearby chair. She doesn’t say anything. Despite the lack of light, he can see her wipe the sleep from her eyes and yawn violently. He knows she’s just dreamt of Charlie because he’s just dreamt of Juliet. Sawyer and Claire only dream of their island loves on the same night and at the same time. Although he’s unsure why this happens (why they dream together), he doesn’t like to think about it much.
“She was wearin’ a new dress,” he says as if she’ll share her dream with him tonight. “A white one without a speck of dirt. No matter what she did, she could never get rid of the dirt. She used to say it followed her everywhere.” He chuckles softly. “I guess she don’t… she doesn’t have to worry ‘bout that no more.”
Claire stands then and he can see her fresh tears streak down her pale face. “Charlie was with Aaron. Aaron was running to him, calling him Daddy. He knew him, Sawyer.” She pauses to catch her breath. “I wanted that. God, I wanted that.”
“I know,” he says, tears in his eyes. And then, minutes or seconds or moments after, “come here.”
She crosses the carpet to his bed cautiously and slow before climbing over the footboard, folding her legs underneath her once she’s resting in between his feet. He rises just as slow, kneeling next to her, his nose pressed to hers.
And then it happens fast.
He’s kissing her and she’s kissing him, tongues moving sinuously together. He lifts her nightshirt from her body, delicately fingering her puckered scar that should mark his skin instead but doesn’t. She wears nothing underneath and her white skin almost illuminates the dark room. Claire swiftly lowers his boxers, stroking his heated flesh and watches for his reaction. He flips her and they make love on the lower half of his bed, her hair spilling beyond the edge of the mattress and into the abyss of darkness as he thrusts inside of her.
They kiss as they come, gasping into each other’s mouths, shuddering in each other’s arms.
She slides her tee shirt back on and slips from his room as if she were never there at all.
- - -
Sawyer watches and he waits. Claire is delicate, sharp at the edges, ready to break at any moment.
But she speaks now, every day and all day. Reads to Aaron as often as the boy likes (but lets Sawyer share pages too because Aaron has always and will always enjoy hearing Sawyer’s voice). Voices her opinion on Sawyer’s cooking, Aaron’s teacher, the news, the weather, which movie they should see, how much she misses Kate and Miles and Lapidus and Richard, speaks confidently and with poise at Thomas’ trial and then with anger when he isn’t jailed for nearly long enough. She tells Sawyer she doesn’t love him yet, but might some day if things keep going the way they go. She talks about how it’s easier to not love someone than to love them, which is why she married Thomas in the first place.
Sometimes she wakes up screaming and doesn’t sleep for days after.
But she plays now, almost as often as she speaks. Board games: Monopoly (he lets her win), Jenga, Candy Land, Cranium; soars on the swings, etches on the blacktop in bright colored chalk so they can play hopscotch, freeze tag, red rover. She colors and draws and paints things for Aaron while he is away at school, Sawyer’s house quickly becoming a gallery filled with dragonflies and bubbles and birds and balloons, among other ornate etchings.
Sometimes she doesn’t want to leave the house for days on end and drives Sawyer crazy with conspiracies and phobias.
But she dances. In the daytime with Aaron; to kid songs centering on flowers and thunderstorms and rainbows, Disney lyrics about lions and mermaids and princesses who fall in love with princes. At night with him; usually slow, sad songs that make them discuss their simultaneous dreams all while wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying in the middle of his living room. By herself: dons ballet slippers and a leotard, knots her hair into a tight yellow bun and practices what she learned when she was just four years old.
Sometimes they sleep in the same bed and sometimes they don’t. But she smiles and doesn’t bruise, laughs and doesn’t weep, lives but doesn’t die. She stays. He’s more than okay with all of it.
take your time honey, take your time.
End.
Characters: Claire/Sawyer, Aaron
Rating: M for violence, language, sex
Word Count: 2800
Summary: After coming home, Claire decides to marry Thomas but things don't go quite as she planned.
Disclaimer: So back in April 2008, Augustana released a CD titled, Can't Love Can't Hurt. I loved the CD so much that I decided to write a Claire/Sawyer centric story for each song on the CD. This is the eighth story inspired by the song Rest, Shame, Love, (one track remains). The song and characters used are simply borrowed and nothing more.
breaking up with your breakdowns,
standing tall in your white gown,
you're going nowhere, you're going fast.
Sawyer isn’t so sure this is the place for him. Kate is smiling with false happiness, dressed in a simple satin piece with her hair knotted at her neck. He sits in an uncomfortable chair feeling very aware of the sun’s heat. The music picks up, the groom walks out and stands in the appropriate space waiting for his bride, but no bride comes.
Claire is getting married to Thomas this morning and Sawyer is supposed to be acting like this is the best thing to happen since they all left the island. Kate stands off to one side waiting for Richard to walk the blonde down the aisle. She holds Aaron’s hand tightly in her own and he suddenly remembers something about an agreement between the two women regarding ‘their’ son. Everyone has had their perfect little happy ending.
‘Cept for him. ‘Cept for Claire.
Miles leans over and mutters something about Sawyer being the one to go on and check up on the bride and he reluctantly stands, feeling everyone’s eyes watch as he walks into the small building where Claire is readying.
He doesn’t knock. The door glides open noiselessly and he stands in the doorway, unable to do much but stare. Claire stands in her white gown, all pristine and looking something like a marble statue. Too pretty for real life, or for the life they’ve all lived, for that matter. To say she looks beautiful would be an understatement at best; too bad he’s too choked up to say much of anything at all.
There’s a frown etched onto her face as she fluffs her veil and preens in the mirror, almost as if she can’t quite erase the image of her own mud streaked face from her mind. Almost as if she’s trying to remember she has a mind at all. Her father is dead, brother gone too, mother fresh in the grave; left with a son who calls another woman ‘mommy’. He knows she thinks this is the only path left.
“You look beautiful,” he says. He means it.
She doesn’t turn and he realizes it’s because she knew he was there the second he approached the doorway. Three years in the jungle with the smoke monster will do that to a girl.
“I don’t feel beautiful,” she says and turns away from the mirror. Claire plops down in a nearby chair, dress fanning out beneath her. She turns her face upwards to him. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he can still see some crazy in those blue orbs. Once you reach the brink of insanity there’s always still some left. But not today, he doesn’t see crazy today. Today he sees fear, anxiety, and sadness. “I feel lost,” she says before dropping her face into her hands and crying.
He rushes to her side, kneels down to her level and takes her shaking hands into his own, forcing her to look at him. “Then don’t do this, sweetheart. Don’t marry him.”
“How can I not?” she sobs. “He’s Aaron’s father, he was the first love of my life!”
“Because Charlie – ”
“Don’t!” she interrupts. “Please don’t.” She says it as if she’s in physical pain.
“Because I can’t let you do this to yourself, to your life.” He brings his hand to her delicate cheek and wipes a stray tear away. “I know exactly how you feel.”
“But you don’t.” And she stands, breaking away from his grip. “You never went crazy, you were never left behind, you didn’t have to lie awake every night in the middle of a jungle with only an empty jar and a creepy squirrel baby to keep you company. He didn’t poison you.
“Thomas is the only one left who knows nothing of the island, of my time there. This is the only clean start I’ll ever get. This is for the good of everyone.” She turns back to him and looks at him, expects him to say something.
It takes minutes but he finally says, “you don’t love him and you never will,” before he retreats.
“I know,” she says softly to the empty room.
Claire marries Thomas ten minutes later underneath an awning of pink roses. Sawyer doesn’t stick around to watch.
- - -
you're slowing down but you'll never last,
take your time honey, take your time.
Kate’s been gone for eleven months when Thomas strikes Claire across the cheek with the wooden end of one of his paintbrushes for the first time. The loud crack echoes in the silent room and it is the first time Thomas is privy to the little bit of crazy left in Claire.
She takes the hit with stony eyes, covers the bruise with makeup, and picks Aaron up from pre-K.
When Sawyer asks where the bruise came from, she shakes his concerned hands from her skin and mutters some poor excuse about clumsiness and an open door. He’s never met anyone more graceful and lithe on their feet, but it’s easier to let things slide. He pushes Aaron on a swing while Claire watches Thomas paint through an open window; the frown on her red lips almost as ominous as a thundercloud.
- - -
it's the wrong dream, with the wrong man,
with a cold gun, in your wrong hand.
Thirty days after Thomas strikes Claire for the first time, he pushes her down a flight of wooden steps. Aaron watches the entire scene from the living room, blue eyes huge and round with fear. He is the one who dials Uncle Sawyer’s number and frantically whispers into the phone, fear bubbling past his tiny lips. “Claire fell! Mamma Claire fell! Thomas push—” before the line goes dead.
Sawyer nearly causes two collisions before making it to Claire’s home. He’s already called 911, but there’s no ambulance in sight. Instead, there is a splattering of blood on the wooden floor to greet him and Sawyer’s shoes slide on the crimson liquid as he enters. “Claire!” he yells. “Aaron!” There is only a chilling silence that answers him.
He stomps up the stairs still calling out their names but no one answers him. He searches their room, flinging open closets and scrambling underneath beds. He flies down the steps after a minute or two, heading towards Thomas’ studio. When he slams into the cold, tiled room, he isn’t prepared for the scene that greets him.
Claire stands in the center of the room, Aaron’s tiny form clinging to her jean-clad leg. He is covered in her blood and wails openly, his tears marking his rosy cheeks. Sawyer isn’t so sure how Claire is standing, not with the amount of blood streaming down past her temple and dripping onto the white tile. Her chest is heaving and she is gripping a large knife. Thomas stands about ten feet away from her next to some unfinished canvas, arms braced at his side. He doesn’t look scared and Sawyer thinks he’s quite the fool.
“Sweetheart,” Sawyer tries. Claire doesn’t turn her head (she knows how long he’s been in the house, of course). Thomas turns his head lazily, eyeing Sawyer with a smug confidence.
“Go on home, James,” Thomas says and Sawyer wonders how he can hate his accent so much but adore Claire’s. “This is just a misunderstanding.”
“You pushed her!” Aaron wails. “You pushed Momma Claire!”
“You little bastard – ” Thomas tries, but is cut off by a feral scream from Claire. “Don’t dare… don’t even look at him… I’ll kill you!”
“Claire,” Sawyer tries again. “Don’t do this, please darling. We need to get you help.”
“I don’t need help, Sawyer,” she says and raises the knife even higher. “I know what I need.”
“He’ll never come near any of you again, I promise. Claire. Look at me. I promise you. I won’t let anything bad happen to either of you.”
She breaks then. The knife clatters to the floor and she slides down with Aaron, clutching at her son and crying hard. Sawyer picks up the knife and throws it in the paint stained sink, collapsing down to the quivering pair and ignoring Thomas. Aaron isn’t bleeding at all and seems to be all right save for the fright in his eyes. He brushes Claire’s hair out of her face, feeling for the head wound, needing her to be okay. Already her eyes are unfocused. “Stay with me, Claire.”
“Sawyer,” she whispers weakly, the fight in her nearly gone. He sees her eyes widen and he turns just in time to see Thomas charging at the trio with the discarded knife. Before he can react, Claire is screeching and Aaron screams as she flings away from them both, intercepting the knife meant for Sawyer’s back. The cry of a siren muffles the sound of Thomas’ retreating footsteps, blocks out Sawyer’s frantic cry, the keening howl of Aaron as he retreats – the small of his back smacking into an open cabinet. The boy hides for hours on end after they take his mother away.
- - -
get it right this time, get it off your mind,
let the summer rain bring you rest
and shame and love
“You think Mommy will wanna color today, Uncle Sawyer?”
“I don’t know, kiddo. Maybe.”
Sawyer hates lying to the kid. Ever since coming home from the hospital, Claire hasn’t so much uttered a word. He took care of Aaron while Claire recovered, moved their things into his home, visited the pale blonde as much as possible. He never expected to be so damned domestic and didn’t even notice the change until Cassidy slyly made a dry remark one day while Clementine and Aaron frolicked. The most surprising thing is that it doesn’t seem to bother the bachelor one bit. Fact is, Claire and Aaron are the only ones left now that Kate’s flown the coop and Lapidus, Miles, and Richard are so far away. Maybe he feels like he owes it to Jack or maybe he owes it to himself… he’s not quite so sure.
Most of all, maybe he owes it to the blonde who sits out in their garden day after day. He’s the one who lost her in the first place, after all, the one who didn’t watch closely enough.
Today is the first day it rains and still, Claire doesn’t budge from her spot. He busies Aaron with tv and coloring before pulling on a hood and rushing outside.
“Come inside, Claire. It’s pourin’ buckets!” Her eyes shift toward him lazily and it’s almost as if she’s saying ‘so what’. She doesn’t seem to be too concerned about the weather. He extends his hand to her, urges her to take it. “Claire.”
She looks at him and bites her lip before taking his hand. The bruises on her collarbone have faded into a yellowish green now but still look so ugly on her pretty skin. “I wanted to save myself,” she says softly. “I didn’t want a hero.” Without warning, she unzips his jacket and strips him of it, throwing it somewhere on the cobblestone path. The rain soaks him immediately, dripping down his face and onto his eyelashes, from his nose to his lips. It’s a warm rain, but he is cold with the suddenness of it all.
Claire grips his hand tighter and moves it to the spot where Thomas drove the knife in. He can feel the raised scar it left on her skin even through the fabric of her shirt.
“I’m gonna be okay, they can’t get me anymore,” she says, this time with less of an edge in her voice. Standing on the tips of her toes she kisses him lightly on the mouth. “Thank you.”
She drops his hand and walks inside the house. Two hours later, Aaron and her draw a butterfly.
- - -
carve your name in a black stone,
swear to god we won't let go,
if you can't love babe, then you can't hurt,
we take the good times, with the worst
It’s late one winter night when Claire comes into his room, softly curling into a nearby chair. She doesn’t say anything. Despite the lack of light, he can see her wipe the sleep from her eyes and yawn violently. He knows she’s just dreamt of Charlie because he’s just dreamt of Juliet. Sawyer and Claire only dream of their island loves on the same night and at the same time. Although he’s unsure why this happens (why they dream together), he doesn’t like to think about it much.
“She was wearin’ a new dress,” he says as if she’ll share her dream with him tonight. “A white one without a speck of dirt. No matter what she did, she could never get rid of the dirt. She used to say it followed her everywhere.” He chuckles softly. “I guess she don’t… she doesn’t have to worry ‘bout that no more.”
Claire stands then and he can see her fresh tears streak down her pale face. “Charlie was with Aaron. Aaron was running to him, calling him Daddy. He knew him, Sawyer.” She pauses to catch her breath. “I wanted that. God, I wanted that.”
“I know,” he says, tears in his eyes. And then, minutes or seconds or moments after, “come here.”
She crosses the carpet to his bed cautiously and slow before climbing over the footboard, folding her legs underneath her once she’s resting in between his feet. He rises just as slow, kneeling next to her, his nose pressed to hers.
And then it happens fast.
He’s kissing her and she’s kissing him, tongues moving sinuously together. He lifts her nightshirt from her body, delicately fingering her puckered scar that should mark his skin instead but doesn’t. She wears nothing underneath and her white skin almost illuminates the dark room. Claire swiftly lowers his boxers, stroking his heated flesh and watches for his reaction. He flips her and they make love on the lower half of his bed, her hair spilling beyond the edge of the mattress and into the abyss of darkness as he thrusts inside of her.
They kiss as they come, gasping into each other’s mouths, shuddering in each other’s arms.
She slides her tee shirt back on and slips from his room as if she were never there at all.
- - -
Sawyer watches and he waits. Claire is delicate, sharp at the edges, ready to break at any moment.
But she speaks now, every day and all day. Reads to Aaron as often as the boy likes (but lets Sawyer share pages too because Aaron has always and will always enjoy hearing Sawyer’s voice). Voices her opinion on Sawyer’s cooking, Aaron’s teacher, the news, the weather, which movie they should see, how much she misses Kate and Miles and Lapidus and Richard, speaks confidently and with poise at Thomas’ trial and then with anger when he isn’t jailed for nearly long enough. She tells Sawyer she doesn’t love him yet, but might some day if things keep going the way they go. She talks about how it’s easier to not love someone than to love them, which is why she married Thomas in the first place.
Sometimes she wakes up screaming and doesn’t sleep for days after.
But she plays now, almost as often as she speaks. Board games: Monopoly (he lets her win), Jenga, Candy Land, Cranium; soars on the swings, etches on the blacktop in bright colored chalk so they can play hopscotch, freeze tag, red rover. She colors and draws and paints things for Aaron while he is away at school, Sawyer’s house quickly becoming a gallery filled with dragonflies and bubbles and birds and balloons, among other ornate etchings.
Sometimes she doesn’t want to leave the house for days on end and drives Sawyer crazy with conspiracies and phobias.
But she dances. In the daytime with Aaron; to kid songs centering on flowers and thunderstorms and rainbows, Disney lyrics about lions and mermaids and princesses who fall in love with princes. At night with him; usually slow, sad songs that make them discuss their simultaneous dreams all while wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying in the middle of his living room. By herself: dons ballet slippers and a leotard, knots her hair into a tight yellow bun and practices what she learned when she was just four years old.
Sometimes they sleep in the same bed and sometimes they don’t. But she smiles and doesn’t bruise, laughs and doesn’t weep, lives but doesn’t die. She stays. He’s more than okay with all of it.
take your time honey, take your time.
End.
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