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janie_tangerineTitle: We'll Meet On Edges, Soon
Rating: NC17
Pairing: alt!Desmond/alt!Sayid
Words: 814
Summary: “Aren’t you afraid that someone will catch you, eventually?”; “I reckon that one day they will, but by then my job will be done.” Desmond shrugs, and Sayid doesn’t ask what the job is. He’s sure he won’t get an answer anyway.
Spoilers: up and included 6x13.
Disclaimer: Lost isn't mine, duh. We would have seen this happening.
A/N: originally written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aboutbunnies for the five acts meme; the prompts were fugitives and kissing. Using for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lostpicksix #12, motel. Title from Bob Dylan.
Sayid doesn’t really know why that man actually went through all the trouble to break him out of prison when, as he finds out from a newspaper, he’s actually wanted himself for having run someone over with a car.
It’s not like he can judge, though, not after having killed those people. So, he doesn’t judge, but he asks.
The man, Desmond, just laughs and drinks from his cup of cheap coffee in the diner they’re currently eating in, two states over and sunglasses over their eyes.
“Believe me, brother. I did that for a reason.”
“The same one for which you freed me?”
“Perhaps,” Desmond answers, and then doesn’t anymore. Sayid doesn’t push it. And even if there’s something unsettling about Desmond, he doesn’t think about it. No use. Not really.
--
They drive for entire days and never spend two nights in the same motel. It’s not like Sayid has a problem with it, he would rather be here than in prison, but he just does not get it.
“What are you gaining out of this?” he asks after one week, and gets that cryptic, half-smile in return.
“Don’t worry about that, brother. I know what I’m doing. And I am gaining something.”
“Do you not… don’t you have someone to go back to?”
“Not yet,” he answers, with the confidence of someone who knows that their time will eventually come. “What about you?”
“Not anymore,” Sayid answers, resigned, and Desmond just pats him on the back.
“See? For now, we’re absolutely at balance, I reckon.”
Sayid doesn’t reckon, not really, but he goes with it. It’s not like he has another choice anyway and this isn’t the worst that could happen to him.
--
At times, Desmond disappears and Sayid stays at the motel. Usually, the motels they stay in are, he guesses, average; not pricey, but at least not filthy, either. The one he’s in now, though, is very cheap, but it was the only available place. But, as all cheap motels (as Sayid learned; five-star hotels don’t teach you such things, and it’s when he misses his job), this one has Magic Fingers.
Sayid is ashamed when he thinks about how many quarters he devolved to those hellish machines, but they’re a good respite, and he won’t refuse comfort where he can find it.
Desmond looks pretty satisfied when he gets back into the room. Sayid wonders what the hell is he out doing.
“I gather everything went fine?”
“Oh, everything went fine, aye,” Desmond agrees.
“Aren’t you afraid that someone will catch you, eventually?”
“I reckon that one day they will, but by then my job will be done,” Desmond shrugs, and Sayid doesn’t ask what the job is. He’s sure he won’t get an answer anyway.
--
It’s one month and they’re kissing on Sayid’s bed; Desmond’s lips are warm and pliant against Sayid’s, and his tongue is sure and moves without hesitation as he maps every inch of Sayid’s mouth that it can reach.
Sayid thinks that they were talking about something like this. He had said he could never have the woman he loves, and Desmond answered that he still can’t have her, not yet, and that’s how they ended here. And Sayid doesn’t give up control, not so easily and not with anyone, but there’s something in the way Desmond feels so sure about this that makes him just follow his lead. He doesn’t mind it when he’s pushed on his back. He arches up eagerly when Desmond opens his shirt. He nods and kisses him again as Desmond lowers Sayid’s jeans down. He lets himself just feel when a hand with long fingers and that gives firm strokes brings him off until he can’t even get what’s going on.
It really feels good to let go, at times. Maybe, he thinks before blacking out, he should do it more often.
--
“Are we actually going somewhere?” Sayid asks the next day on the car, as some opera of Desmond’s fills the air. It’s Italian and melodic and beautiful to listen to, but Sayid can’t really understand it. Italian wasn’t required, when he joined the army.
“That girl on the radio, who’s actually playing a man, is desperate because he falls in love with every woman he comes across, if you were wondering.”
“How do you know?”
Desmond smiles and doesn’t answer.
Then he does, but not that question. “And aye, we are going somewhere. I can’t still tell you were. But I will.”
“I can wait,” Sayid just says, and lets Desmond drive.
After all, he knows patience. He knows it, indeed.
Really. Considering where he could be, and considering that he could be in worse company (even if there’s something in Desmond that still unsettles him to a small degree, but it fades with each passing day) he doesn’t really mind anymore.
End.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: alt!Desmond/alt!Sayid
Words: 814
Summary: “Aren’t you afraid that someone will catch you, eventually?”; “I reckon that one day they will, but by then my job will be done.” Desmond shrugs, and Sayid doesn’t ask what the job is. He’s sure he won’t get an answer anyway.
Spoilers: up and included 6x13.
Disclaimer: Lost isn't mine, duh. We would have seen this happening.
A/N: originally written for
aboutbunnies for the five acts meme; the prompts were fugitives and kissing. Using for lostpicksix #12, motel. Title from Bob Dylan.Sayid doesn’t really know why that man actually went through all the trouble to break him out of prison when, as he finds out from a newspaper, he’s actually wanted himself for having run someone over with a car.
It’s not like he can judge, though, not after having killed those people. So, he doesn’t judge, but he asks.
The man, Desmond, just laughs and drinks from his cup of cheap coffee in the diner they’re currently eating in, two states over and sunglasses over their eyes.
“Believe me, brother. I did that for a reason.”
“The same one for which you freed me?”
“Perhaps,” Desmond answers, and then doesn’t anymore. Sayid doesn’t push it. And even if there’s something unsettling about Desmond, he doesn’t think about it. No use. Not really.
--
They drive for entire days and never spend two nights in the same motel. It’s not like Sayid has a problem with it, he would rather be here than in prison, but he just does not get it.
“What are you gaining out of this?” he asks after one week, and gets that cryptic, half-smile in return.
“Don’t worry about that, brother. I know what I’m doing. And I am gaining something.”
“Do you not… don’t you have someone to go back to?”
“Not yet,” he answers, with the confidence of someone who knows that their time will eventually come. “What about you?”
“Not anymore,” Sayid answers, resigned, and Desmond just pats him on the back.
“See? For now, we’re absolutely at balance, I reckon.”
Sayid doesn’t reckon, not really, but he goes with it. It’s not like he has another choice anyway and this isn’t the worst that could happen to him.
--
At times, Desmond disappears and Sayid stays at the motel. Usually, the motels they stay in are, he guesses, average; not pricey, but at least not filthy, either. The one he’s in now, though, is very cheap, but it was the only available place. But, as all cheap motels (as Sayid learned; five-star hotels don’t teach you such things, and it’s when he misses his job), this one has Magic Fingers.
Sayid is ashamed when he thinks about how many quarters he devolved to those hellish machines, but they’re a good respite, and he won’t refuse comfort where he can find it.
Desmond looks pretty satisfied when he gets back into the room. Sayid wonders what the hell is he out doing.
“I gather everything went fine?”
“Oh, everything went fine, aye,” Desmond agrees.
“Aren’t you afraid that someone will catch you, eventually?”
“I reckon that one day they will, but by then my job will be done,” Desmond shrugs, and Sayid doesn’t ask what the job is. He’s sure he won’t get an answer anyway.
--
It’s one month and they’re kissing on Sayid’s bed; Desmond’s lips are warm and pliant against Sayid’s, and his tongue is sure and moves without hesitation as he maps every inch of Sayid’s mouth that it can reach.
Sayid thinks that they were talking about something like this. He had said he could never have the woman he loves, and Desmond answered that he still can’t have her, not yet, and that’s how they ended here. And Sayid doesn’t give up control, not so easily and not with anyone, but there’s something in the way Desmond feels so sure about this that makes him just follow his lead. He doesn’t mind it when he’s pushed on his back. He arches up eagerly when Desmond opens his shirt. He nods and kisses him again as Desmond lowers Sayid’s jeans down. He lets himself just feel when a hand with long fingers and that gives firm strokes brings him off until he can’t even get what’s going on.
It really feels good to let go, at times. Maybe, he thinks before blacking out, he should do it more often.
--
“Are we actually going somewhere?” Sayid asks the next day on the car, as some opera of Desmond’s fills the air. It’s Italian and melodic and beautiful to listen to, but Sayid can’t really understand it. Italian wasn’t required, when he joined the army.
“That girl on the radio, who’s actually playing a man, is desperate because he falls in love with every woman he comes across, if you were wondering.”
“How do you know?”
Desmond smiles and doesn’t answer.
Then he does, but not that question. “And aye, we are going somewhere. I can’t still tell you were. But I will.”
“I can wait,” Sayid just says, and lets Desmond drive.
After all, he knows patience. He knows it, indeed.
Really. Considering where he could be, and considering that he could be in worse company (even if there’s something in Desmond that still unsettles him to a small degree, but it fades with each passing day) he doesn’t really mind anymore.
End.
