Type: Fic (905 Words)
Pairing: Sawyer and Turnip Head... sorta
Summary: Charlie needs some help quieting his charge. Sawyer doesn't like headaches. (and shhh! I know it's 26 mins late *hides*)
Author's Note: Dedicated to then ending of LOST's first season *cries* I hate hiatus!
“I said, no.”
“One sodding story?”
“What part of no don’t you understand, twinkle toes?”
Charlie’s face tightens in a frown, tan, scruffy cheeks compressing into balloons and furthering his eternal impression of a chimpanzee. The ball in his arms, a swaddled bundle of blankets, spit and tears, continues to writhe and scream like a caged lion, stirring troubled and worried thoughts in its caretaker’s eyes. And then, lightening strikes, an epiphany jolting his gaze from sea storms to smooth sailing, “Four eyes.”
Sand flies and the breeze turns to gusts as Sawyer spins on his heels and approaches the small, baby-toting dead beat. “What was that?”
Silence fills a section of the beach and Charlie breathes a sigh of relief. That is, until Claire’s baby inhales, exchanging batteries and continues on its never ending quest to puncture ear drums with recharged lungs. The wailing is enough to create a distraction from Charlie’s less than original insult, turning Sawyer’s attention to the source of his approaching headache.“Can’t you shut that thing up?” deep southern lit coming through in its best form of annoyance.
Stillness again, but the reprieve is only short lived. Sniffling ensues and Charlie steps forward even as Sawyer turns and attempts walking off again. “I bloody swear, mate, just one story and he’ll fall asleep and then you can go off and-” Charlie pauses, suddenly realising he’s not entirely sure what it is Sawyer would be doing if not inflicted with the company of a baby on protest.
But he doesn’t have to worry about it for long because, fed up and frustrated, Sawyer stops just outside his make shift beach front flat and turns back to the unhappy pair. “I tell him a story and he shuts up... and then you stop following me like a lost kitten?”
“Yep. Promise. Just the one.”
The clogs that normally turn within Sawyer’s mind like liquid time struggle with even a single tick, the baby’s wailing mucking up the mechanics of thought process. “Alight fine...” he blurts, radiating anything but excitement, but the baby doesn’t notice. He calms instantly at the rough slide of vocal cords, pipping up again with a running nose the moment Sawyer’s voice becomes a whisper on the wind. Charlie smiles and seats himself in the sand.
“Eh... Alright,” Sawyer starts, plopping down onto the earth next to Charlie, leaning over the entranced newborn. He glares at it, willing it to cry out just once, sharing a moment of quiet threats. Charlie begins to rock his burden softly, mimicking the motion of being carried as the story unfolds.
“See, buttons- it all starts in a town-”
“Once upon a time,” Charlie interrupts, softly correcting the tale’s beginning. Sawyer shifts his gaze, lower jaw hanging open and cocked to the side. “It has to start with ‘Once upon a time’... come on, didn’t your mum ever tell you bedtime stories?”
It’s a personal subject breeched and Sawyer spits, “It’s my damn story, Mother Goose.”
Charlie narrows his eyes but quiets down, offering a finger to the torment of baby’s delight. “As I was saying,” Sawyer directs his stare back to the object of his focus, “before I was rudely interrupted- it all starts in a town. Snow falls, kids build a snowman, snowman comes to life and sings a bunch of silly songs.”
Green meets green and Sawyer has to pause briefly, the wonder in the baby’s eyes captivating, calming, and he just about smiles at the ball of pinky flesh when the happy face contorts and starts complaining again. “Ahh hell!” And just as easily as it was created, the fragile connection is shattered.
“Keep talkin’,” Charlie insists, knowing full well the tale is not finished. After all, his mother raised him and Liam on bedtime stories.
“Who made you boss? Tri-tip here?” Charlie shuts up again, the oh so gentle reminder of his place in this story bringing a soft pout to his chapped lips.
And Sawyer begins again, voice rising and falling with as little enthusiasm as he can muster. Though, as time increases, he falls into the baby’s gaze and despite the scowl he keeps upon permanently disappointed features, inside, he’s smiling. The ball of innocence never breaks its gaze, devoted to every blurb and bather that filters from the man’s mouth. It’s the unfamiliar, deep attention and lack of interruption that has Sawyer finding himself continuing the story happily, making up wild adventures with extravagant hand gestures.
That is- until his muse leaves him high and dry.
“...and then Fro-zone says ‘see you tykes next year’, only, the next year, it doesn’t snow.”
“What? What do you mean it doesn’t snow? It always snows in bloody England!” protests Charlie. He’s been sitting quietly, brooding over the mixed up childhood tale, keeping to himself for the most part only at the price of biting his inner cheek, but this time, Sawyer’s gone too far. The baby cries, Charlie continues and once again, the magic is destroyed.
Sawyer grumbles, spiraling back into the boring island-role of depressed southern psychopath.
Reaching over, he picks up a magazine, complying with Charlie’s continuing litany of storybook lectures and British curse words. Flipping through the pages, he clears his throat loudly, dryly reading allowed about V8 engines.
Despite his attempts to push the thoughts away, Sawyer daydreams of a snow that will never come.