pg | no warnings apply
Her ankle twists, twice, as she makes her way across the sand to Sawyer's tent. When she gets there, she stands in front of him, deliberately blocking the fading light, hands on her hips, as if that will somehow make her look more threatening.
"Give it," she demands.
Sawyer doesn't even look up from what he's reading. "Excuse me?"
"Whatever alcohol you have in your tent, give it."
"I'm sure someone told you, sweetheart - "
"That you gave Jack all your booze for my brother. But I know you saved something, or stole it back when he ... I know you have something."
He finally glances up, takes off his glasses. She can only imagine what she looks like, wearing the same clothing she's had on for two (three?) days, no make-up, hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot. Maybe she went about this all wrong; she should have played the damsel in distress from the start.
"And what you gonna pay me for it?"
"Nothing. You're going to give it to me." Her resolves is faltering, though, her anger fading, being replaced with sadness. (And she's so. fucking. tired. of being sad.) She stands in the sand, skirt flapping in the breeze, watches as his smirk turns into a smile.
"All right, Princess. You stay here."
As he walks into the jungle, she steps into his tent, pulls out a blanket to sit on. There's nothing to do but watch the sun setting while the waves crash, so she stares out at the ocean for so long that she starts to think he just left her there. But then there's a bottle in front of her, and she gasps when she sees the label.
"This is a $500 bottle of wine."
"Oh yeah?" He sits down next to her, after rummaging in his tent for a cracked coffee mug and a water bottle with the top cut off.
"Yeah," she says appreciatively.
"To think, I just put it away for a special occasion 'cause the label was pretty."
It takes him only a few moments to pry out the cork with a knife, although there are little bits of it floating in her cup when she brings it to her lips. She knocks it back quickly, spits out the cork, holds it out for more.
"You wanna slow down?"
"I can handle it."
"Oh, I don't doubt that, Barbarella. But you don't want to blow through this thing in ten minutes." He takes a drink and grimaces. "Five hundred dollars a bottle? Tastes like damn wine from a box."
This time, she sips it; the alcohol is already starting to work its magic. "What's up with nicknames? Seriously?"
"What's the big deal about the nicknames?" He leans in closer, says in a mocking tone, "Seriously?"
"They're real. That's what pisses y'all off. Your real name ain't nothing but some stupid thing your parents slapped on you before they even knew you. You gonna tell me that 'Sayid' is Iraqi for 'sadistic bastard' and 'Jack' is Russian for 'arrogant prick' and 'Shannon' is Italian for 'selfish little ...'?"
His gaze drops for a minute, and she almost thinks he might apologize. The thought of another person saying 'I'm sorry' to her fuels her rage again.
"It's Irish or something for 'wise little owl', actually," she tells him, before he can say anything else.
"Yeah, see? That ain't you at all."
"Gee, thanks." She holds out her cup, and this time, he doesn't argue.
They go back to watching the waves until he says, "Captain Arab isn't gonna be paying me a visit if he sees you over here, is he? I kinda like having ten fingers."
"He's not even here." She finishes off her wine in two big swallows. "He's ... he's killed people, right? I mean, that's what you do in a war."
"Yeah." Without her even asking, he pours her some more. "Probably why he stopped you. Killin', it - "
"Do not give me the lecture on how killing changes you and ruins your soul, or whatever. I hear that one more time, I'm going to ... " She laughs, even as her free hand is clenched in a fist. " ... I'm going to shoot somebody."
"Yeah, well, for the record, I would've let you shoot the bastard."
She stares at him for a long moment. "You wouldn't have."
"Oh, you an expert on me all of a sudden? I don't know if you've been payin' attention, but I'm the bad guy around here."
"Whatever." She doesn't feel like arguing. "You know, 'Boone' means 'good'. From the French. And 'Sabrina' ... it means 'cactus' or something."
He smiles at her. "You're drunk."
"That was the point."
"You eat today?" When she shakes her head, he reaches back, offers her a papaya, but she pushes his hand away. "Aw, come on. This ain't gonna be no fun if you pass out on me. We still gotta come up with some island drinking game. You know, don't get rescued, do a shot. Walt annoys somebody, do a shot. Charlie sings that damn song one more time, like he thinks someone cares - "
"- do a shot," she finishes, giggling. "But you don't do shots of wine."
Even though she's sitting, she feels dizzy all of a sudden, and when she tries to shift her position, she ends up with her face in the sand. She hears him sigh.
"All right, Malibu Barbie. I think it's time to go back to your doll house."
"Don't wanna," she whines.
"Yeah, well, tough shit." She gasps when he hoists her up over his shoulder. "And for the record, only reason I ain't takin' advantage of you right now is because of Apu Nahasapeema-Arab and his magical bamboo fingernail sticks."
"Apu wasn't Irabical," she slurs. "He was ... something ... else."
Having arrived at her semi-complete shelter, he grunts as he drops her back onto the sand. His touch almost seems gentle when he arranges her on her blanket. She's nearly asleep when she hears his voice again. Opening her eyes, she sees him holding out the nearly empty bottle of wine.
"You might as well finish this off. Just don't be spreading no damn rumors about me bein' nice."
She holds up the bottle in a sloppy toast. "Wouldn't dream of it."