Spoilers: Up through "Outlaws"
Note: Written for the fanfic100 prompts Green, Brown and Blue
1. Prompt: Green
Pairing: Sawyer/Kate, bit of Jack
Word count: 292
He knows the color of all her shirts, all five of them, and what they do to her complexion and how her eyes seem to change depending on which one she’s wearing. Or maybe it’s her mood that makes them change, makes them turn cloudy or shimmer like the sun on water.
Or maybe it’s the weather. But here, the weather’s nearly always the same -- monotonous beating sun and intense blue skies and maybe a little wisp of white cloud threatening to drift over the horizon. She’s always staring out to sea, hand raised to shield those brilliant green eyes. Everyone’s given up on wearing sunglasses by now. There weren’t enough to go around and she’d never asked for a pair from his stash. He would have just given it to her, if she’d asked. But those jade eyes are always veiled anyway. She doesn’t need to hide behind glasses.
He can count on one hand the times she’s really looked at him. When he told her Jack might be dead and the color drained from her face, pale against the bright green of the tall grass. The sun was in his eyes and he had to squint at her. Her shirt was green cotton the day she kissed him, the day she watched his blood spurt out on the shade of the jungle floor and he thought she might be the last thing he ever saw. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, still wearing the exact same thing, but her eyes had changed color again, with the sea behind her and the wind blowing her hair into her eyes.
They flashed fire in the water, playful and dangerous and he realizes he doesn’t know her at all.
2. Prompt: Brown
Word count: 249
They’re darker than amber. He can’t quite pin it down, but his eyes are like a dark liquor. Like the bottle you pull out of the pantry or a drawer, the light not quite hitting it yet. The light doesn’t filter through like when you pour the alcohol out into a glass, not that clear or weak. Nothing diluted.
He thinks of strength, of dark wood. Not oak, that’s too pale. He doesn’t know shit about wood, never went to the Home Depot and built his own hutch or a tree house or a deck, but he thinks of maple or cherry, maybe. Something that doesn’t bend, or if it bends, it won’t break.
He had a dog with eyes like that, just a shade more whiskey-colored maybe, that matched its coat. He never got over the way it would lay back and just pant happily into his face, completely content, scaring him with the depth of his trust. Jack’s never looked at him like that, but he knows that’s how he would love someone, if he ever took the time, ever stopped running around in circles for five minutes out of one day.
He’s seen his eyes go black, with fury, with fatigue and despair and hurt and he wants to bring him back into the light. He’s got a few bottles of booze left and he holds them up to the sun, wishing there were more of them. There’s not enough here to ease Jack’s worries.
3. Prompt: Blue
Word count: 287
Jack asks him if he’d been blonde as a kid. “Yeah,” is all he says. He’d been a towhead, the picture of innocence, or so everyone told him. Why were white-blonde hair and blue eyes the sign of an angel and brown hair and brown eyes something else? His mother was blonde. His father was dark. He had his mother’s eyes, everyone always said. For the longest time, when he’d look at himself in a mirror, her saw her eyes staring back at him.
Women always commented on his eyes. They loved the glances he shot at them, loved how they crinkled up at the corners and how his dimples lit up his face, all the way up to his eyes when he smiled. He could melt anyone with the right smile.
He could be as warm as a day here on this damned island. But days of nothing but sunshine weren’t real. No one could smile all the time. Sometimes he preferred the cold and the clouds. He knew that when he was mad, his eyes were like ice. He could cut someone dead with a glare, put the fear of God into them.
He didn’t like to think of how he’d looked that night, the rain running into his eyes, the gun in his hand. He had the idea somehow that he blended into the rain, that the whole night was drained of color, everything washed away in the water.
The day he wore his blue T-shirt, a deeper blue than the ocean, it was ruined by his own blood. Maybe blue is a magnet for trouble. He has this faded gray T-shirt he wears sometimes now. Bright just doesn’t suit him as well.