After everything they've been through, it's almost hard to believe they can actually just catch their breath for a minute. Two weeks. Two weeks, and they have a little time to figure out what the hell to do next. It means more to him than he can really articulate, though, that Juliet is willing to stay, to just give him a little extra time.
"How's about we scrounge up some dinner? I don't know about you, but I'm so damn hungry I can't think straight."
She isn't even sure why she agreed except that when he asked her who would have his back, she couldn't deny that it made her feel something. She has no idea what that is yet, but she has two weeks to figure it out.
Pushing herself up, she holds out a hand to him.
"Come on. Horace left food in the house."
Their temporary lodging; the four of them sharing a house; two bedrooms. Not a problem, Horace had said he hoped, for a close crew.
Juliet looks ahead at where they're walking and there's the barest hint of a chin tremble, one she always hides with an upturn of her lips, just in the corner.
"I was brought to this island three years ago to help keep women from dying."
She's never helped anyone, really.
"Nine of them died in my care." She looks at him. "I've never saved anyone on this island, and I don't want to go through that again. I can't." She stops walking, reaching out for his arm and holding onto him, holding his gaze.
"You have no idea what it feels like to watch woman after woman bleed to death while their husbands beg me to save them. James, promise me," she demands.
Her stare is intense, and the slight break in her voice gives away the level of her distress.
He turns so he's facing her completely, forcing himself not to be so dismissive of her very real fear. It's total nonsense, in his mind, but not to her. She didn't do anything wrong, but she can't see it that way. He has the luxury, too, of not having been through the pain of those losses. So while he doesn't get it, he gets it.
"Alright," he sucks in a breath. It's the least he can do, he supposes. "I promise."
He sighs heavily, catching up with her again and trying to formulate a plan as they go. But there's nothing, really, that they can do, just like Juliet said.
When they get back to the house they're sharing, Sawyer immediately searches for food, pulling out the loaf of bread and making two peanut butter sandwiches.
Juliet's so exhausted that from where she's sitting at the small, round kitchen table, she falls asleep with her head propped on her arm. She has no idea when she last sleep, but when her head bobs, she jerks awake, blinking quickly.
"Thanks to time travel, I can't remember the last time I slept. Or ate."
He smiles softly, licking the peanut butter from the knife. "Thirty years ago," he supplies. "Or maybe it was thirty years from now. Hell, I can't remember either." He takes one big bite of his sandwich, setting a plate in front of her as well.
"I'd say you should eat a little now but maybe sleepin' is the better idea."
"Once I lay down, I don't plan on opening my eyes again for at least eight hours." So, she better eat now, is what she's saying. She takes a bite of the sandwich and hums.
"This might be the best sandwich I've ever had in my life." Juliet isn't getting either, licking peanut butter from her thumb.
"There's more sandwiches like that in your future, blondie," he promises with a soft smirk. "We got a whole jar of peanut butter to get through." He takes another few bites of his sandwich, leaning against the counter.
"Figured I'll take the couch out here." He wants her to have a bed all to herself.
Through all of this-the utter chaos the past few days-she's been a steady constant, and he's damn grateful she's still with him now. He can't imagine having to say goodbye to her in the morning.
"Thanks for stickin' around a little while," he murmurs before she leaves.
"Well, then I owe you one," he says sincerely. He means it. She's been wanting off this damn island for so long, but she's sticking around a little while for him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
complexguy) wrote2019-09-29 07:41 pm
no subject
"How's about we scrounge up some dinner? I don't know about you, but I'm so damn hungry I can't think straight."
no subject
Pushing herself up, she holds out a hand to him.
"Come on. Horace left food in the house."
Their temporary lodging; the four of them sharing a house; two bedrooms. Not a problem, Horace had said he hoped, for a close crew.
no subject
"S'pose we're lucky enough that food happens to include fried chicken and macaroni and cheese?"
no subject
"I think we're lucky it's sandwiches and not plain bread."
They haven't really talked, not about a lot, and as they walk now, she lets out a breath.
"While we're here, there's something I want you to promise me."
no subject
"Guess that's fair enough. Alright, blondie, what is it?"
no subject
"I don't want anyone here to know I'm a doctor."
no subject
no subject
"I was brought to this island three years ago to help keep women from dying."
She's never helped anyone, really.
"Nine of them died in my care." She looks at him. "I've never saved anyone on this island, and I don't want to go through that again. I can't." She stops walking, reaching out for his arm and holding onto him, holding his gaze.
"Please, James."
no subject
no subject
Her stare is intense, and the slight break in her voice gives away the level of her distress.
no subject
"Alright," he sucks in a breath. It's the least he can do, he supposes. "I promise."
no subject
"Thank you," she says quietly, turning to begin walking again leisurely.
"There's something else you should know about being here." Juliet keeps walking this time as she looks up at him.
"Ten-year-old Benjamin Linus is here. Somewhere."
There's a subtle clenching of her jaw as she looks at their path forward again.
no subject
no subject
"There's nothing we can do about it. He's just a kid. Come on," she urges, hungry and exhausted and very badly in need of a shower.
no subject
When they get back to the house they're sharing, Sawyer immediately searches for food, pulling out the loaf of bread and making two peanut butter sandwiches.
no subject
"Thanks to time travel, I can't remember the last time I slept. Or ate."
no subject
"I'd say you should eat a little now but maybe sleepin' is the better idea."
no subject
"This might be the best sandwich I've ever had in my life." Juliet isn't getting either, licking peanut butter from her thumb.
"Where are you sleeping?"
no subject
"Figured I'll take the couch out here." He wants her to have a bed all to herself.
no subject
"My back can take it for two weeks." Studying him, she looks down at her sandwich.
"If I'm right, if Locke doesn't come back, then what?"
no subject
As for her other question: "Ask me again tomorrow. Think all that time travelin' fried my brain a little, too."
Is it possible he's just trying to stall as long as possible? Yes.
no subject
"I'm going to shower and sleep," she decides. Slowly standing, she smiles softly at him.
"Night, Lafleur."
no subject
Through all of this-the utter chaos the past few days-she's been a steady constant, and he's damn grateful she's still with him now. He can't imagine having to say goodbye to her in the morning.
"Thanks for stickin' around a little while," he murmurs before she leaves.
no subject
"I'm only doing this because you asked me, James."
She thinks she's right, she doesn't think anyone's there there. But she's staying to help look because he asked her to.
no subject
"Get some sleep."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...